CSOUAT Drabbles and Ficlets
by J-J-Sawyer-Phillips
Summary: Random assortment of (primarily) Captain Swan prompts from Tumblr. Ratings will be in the G to PG-13 range.
1. As You Wish

The last thing she expected on getting back home was for Killian Jones to whisper in her mother's ears and run hell-for-leather off of his beloved ship. The pair of them had obviously come to an accord of sorts while in Neverland, and now they are plotting against her. Mary Margaret had refused the crowd's offer of an immediate celebration (thankfully!), insisting that what the crew of the Jolly Roger needed most was a few decent hours of rest and some privacy. Emma had wearily gone with the flow, not minding in the least when Regina came up to the loft with the whole family, Henry's other hand securely in hers. _Too much energy has been wasted fighting already_. When she walks through the door after her parents, she's surprised to see Killian puttering about in the kitchen.

"What are you-?"

"Not now, love. Come with me." He grabs her free hand and pulls her along with him upstairs. Part of her is offended on so many levels; another part is just too tired to care, but she can hear the water running in the tub the closer they get to the bathroom.

"Killian! What do you think you're-?" He cups her chin and tilts her head up so she has no choice but to look him in the eye. She can't help losing herself in the depth of emotions swirling just beneath the surface because the power of it all terrifies her. He leans forward as if he's going to kiss her, and what's more, she wants him to. Her eyelids flutter shut. But instead of feeling his lips brush against hers, they smooth across her cheek chastely.

"As you wish." Her eyes widen when he pulls back and smiles, then turns her around and pushes her through the bathroom door. With one last longing look and a wink, he closes the door. Emma is left feeling a little confused until she smells something toasted. On a plate perched precariously on the sink is what looks like one of Granny's famous three-grilled-cheese sandwiches. And that's when a memory hits her. Sitting around the campfire and drinking out of a coconut, she had off-handedly commented that the very first thing she wanted when they got back to Storybrooke was a long, hot bath and a grilled-cheese sandwich.


	2. Daddy's Princess

"It's a good thing your ship is full of stolen treasure, because we are going to need it! Amy does not need any reinforcement on the fact that she's a real-"

"Sshhh! Mommy! We can't say the P-word at Dinny World! It will make the others jelly-ous."

"The lass makes an excellent point, love. Besides, all of Amy's 'pretend princess dresses' are back home in Storybrooke. You did say something about this place being a childhood rite of passage for normal, happy, American children. So, in a manner of speaking, we would be derelict in our duties as parents if we didn't get her this-?"

"'Punzel."

"This beautiful Ra-punzel gown." Emma is trying desperately not to laugh at the irony of her family on a Disney World vacation. But even worse is the sight of her fearsome husband down on his knees next to their daughter, an identical pout on each of their lips and a glint of victory in their eyes. Combined, they know that her resistance to their begging will crumble like a house made of straw.

"Fine!" In her excitement, Amy does a little cheer and dance before launching herself at Emma's legs and hugging them tightly. Killian automatically reaches out his hand so that she can steady herself, but the she leans in closer to whisper in his ear. "Just remember this when you're the one she making wear the matching tiara and carry the wand."

She finally frees the laughter that's been building all day at the look of absolute horror on her husband's face.


	3. Punch Drunk Love

He looks at the greenish liquid in the bottle with obvious distaste and distrust. Emma sighs before forcing the "medicine" into his hand. "Just…humor me. Be a grown up and take the cough syrup. It'll knock you out faster than that rotgut you drink all the time. You'll get some real sleep and wake up feeling better"

SSSSSSSSSSS

3 am

Tap tap tap! "Swan!"

Tap tap tap! Rattle. "Swaaaan!"

Emma bolts wide awake, hand automatically reaching for her bedside lamp. The fluorescent glow blinds her for a moment, so she fumbles around for her cell phone. But when she glares at it, there are no missed calls… And then again, from the window, she hears a rattling. She shuffles her feet into her slippers and walks over. Sure enough, on the other side of the glass, she sees Killian perched on the old metal fire escape. She opens the window just a crack. "This had better be important."

"I like your hair! It's pretty and shiny and soft!" His words are slurred and barely understandable around the congestion. Honestly, she'd barely opened her eyes over the short distance from her bed, but she'll bet a round at Granny's that… Yep. Killian Jones is officially high on cold medication. She sighs. Of course he would be that one in one hundred thousand or so people who actually gets hyper on the heavy-duty, kicks-you-when-you're-down cough syrup. Feeling guilty for inadvertently getting him stoned, she opens the window the rest of the way, shivering as the night air rushes in along with the pirate who she drags in by his hook.

"Keep your voice down and your hand to yourself. Maybe some hot cocoa with cinnamon will do the trick, and I can get some more sleep tonight."

"Your voice sounds like angel music, Swan!" Or maybe not.


	4. I'm Not Jesus

Killian is not Christian - has probably never heard of Jesus before and therefore gets quite jealous when Emma cries out Jesus in bed

* * *

"Oi, mate. Glad I caught you… Swan isn't around, is she?" Killian had walked into the station shiftily looking over his shoulder, almost as if he were afraid of getting caught doing, whatever it is he's doing.

David leaned back in his chair away from his desk. Since everything that had gone down in Neverland and then back here in Storybrooke, he'd learned that the pirate was not only someone to be trusted, but a great man to have at your back. Thus, when Jones had started paying court to Emma (his exact words), David had played the affronted father for all of two seconds. "No, she's out on a call. Don't you have her cell number?"

"Aye, I just needed to ask you something. Have you ever heard of a man named Jesus?" Killian looked so worried as to the potential shadiness of this particular character that David couldn't help laughing, practically falling backwards out of his chair when Jones looked even more upset and angry at this new outburst.

"I'm sorry, it's just your face… Jesus is the name of one of this world's deities. America has a reputation for being a "Christian" nation—Christianity is Jesus' religion."

"So, when Emma says something the along the lines of, 'oh, Jesus,' she's invoking the name of a deity?" Some of the hurt and confusion melts away from Killian's face at this revelation, giving way to something closer to amusement and smugness.

"Yeah, or she's swearing at something… Why do you ask?"

Jones slips his hands in his pockets, grinning just a bit wider. "No reason at all, Dave. Just curious."

He walks out whistling, leaving a slightly confused Deputy Nolan behind. Until David thinks things through a little more, leaping to his feet with the slightest hint of murder in his eyes. "_**Hook**_! Get your ass back here! We need to have a man to man chat, _mate_!"


	5. New Beginnings

"Mama! I can't find my Queen shoes!"

"Killian, would you please help Adam find his Lightning McQueen shoes? And while you're at it, can you put their lunches in their backpacks?"

"On it, lass! Just one second, darling…There. Hair tie please?" Amy holds the bright blue rubber band in her little fist. He drops a kiss to the top of her head as he slips the band around the bottom of his daughter's braid. She hops down from the stool and starts to run, but Killian sneaks his arms around her, tossing her in the air. She squeals with laughter when he catches her and rubs his stubble against her cheek. "Now, then my little pirate; where did you hide your brother's shoes this time?"

Amy just giggles, giving him a taunting expression that makes her look the spitting image of her mother, despite the fact that she has his hair and eyes. "They are not 'shoes,' they are buried treasure. Treasure sparkles, Daddy!"

"I am well aware of that, little love. However, his shoes do not sparkle, they light up. Just because your brother leaves his shoes lying about does not mean that they are fair game for stealing. That's bad form on your part. Now, go fetch them and return them to Adam before I make you walk the plank."

She starts shrieking again when he tickles her before putting her down and letting her run off to her newest hiding spot. He remembers the first time Emma discovered one of Amy's little treasure trove cubbies. She had been furious—mostly because they had found lots of small things that the two year old could have decided to eat and choke on, like earrings and necklaces—but Killian had been hard pressed not to laugh at his daughter's resourcefulness and daring. Not to mention that tiniest little bit of pride he feels every time they have to remind one of their friends or family members to keep an eye on their valuables. He still hasn't figured out how she does it because some of the necklaces and bracelets she's pilfered have some pretty difficult clasps for an adult to manage, plus how she sneaks them off without the wearer knowing.

After he had pointed out to Emma that their daughter was not only quite the marauding pirate, but that she also possessed a healthy sense of self-preservation in not putting her treasures in her mouth, they'd had a bit of a memorable laugh together about her little quirk. Relatively speaking, Adam is the quiet one of the pair, but usually half as responsible for the mischief as his sister. Amy may be the leader, and much louder than her twin, but Adam is the planner.

Killian chuckles quietly as he retrieves the brown bag lunches that Emma had put together last night. Adam may look like his mother, but he's a little carbon copy of his brother Henry—nose always stuck in a book, creating stories out of thin air, or concocting elaborate schemes for the various adventures he and his sister plan on going on some day. Now that they are starting school, he supposes that they'll have less time to get into trouble and mischief. Maybe. Possibly. They are his and Swan's children after all.

Strangely, the prospect of fewer scrapes and near misses has less appeal than it did even a week ago. The twins had seen the start of school as the beginning of new adventures for them, and after a little more than four years as a stay at home Dad, he'd been frankly relived. But this morning it doesn't feel like something he should be rejoicing at. True, it will be nice to have a job again to be able to converse with adults on a more regular basis, but now he doesn't have afternoons at the park to look forward to. When Emma shuffles into the kitchen in her bathrobe, she finds her husband just staring at the two little backpacks with the second saddest expression she's ever seen on his face.

She wraps her arms around his waist, pressing her cheek in between his shoulder blades. "They'll be back home a little after 3, Babe. And it's Kindergarten, not the end of the world."

"I know, lass. I just… I never thought I could ever deserve this life with you, with them. I'm just afraid that I took it for granted—all the time I got to spend with them. Before they were born, I told myself that I'd be thankful and grateful for every second… But they just flew right by somehow." He threads the fingers of his hands with hers, lifting to kiss each one of her knuckles before spinning around in her arms.

He notes her bathrobe and his glance becomes focused in an instant. He brushes some of her hair aside, testing her temperature with his wrist to her neck and then her forehead. "Still not feeling well, love? You aren't feverish…"

The corners of his eyes wrinkle in confusion when she starts laughing at him. She slips her arms around his neck, running her fingers through the fine hairs along his nape. "Yes, I am still feeling queasy, and no I don't have a fever. You, Killian Jones, have been the best father in the world, and anyone who has seen you with those two knows exactly how much you cherish them. And believe me, the four of us know it too."

"Four?..." His perplexed expression deepens a bit. Emma pointedly looks down at the pocket of his jeans, which now has a plastic stick pointing out of it. He looks back up at her, eyes shining with love and joy as the meaning clearly starts to dawn on him. "But when?"

"Do you remember that night about a month ago? 'Please, lass. Just this once. What harm could it do?' Apparently, it means that we get another who lifetime worth of 'harm.' And laughter, and birthdays, and adventures, and happiness, and scraped knees, and buried treasure-" Emma shrieks when he lifts her off her feet and starts spinning with her in his arms. Her smile is just so perfect in this moment that he has to kiss her, slowly letting her slide down his body as they celebrate this moment. Such a simple thing, brushing her beloved lips with his, teasing her with his tongue; but this kiss speaks with its own language, one of joy unlooked for. Or at least it does until an annoyed huffing breaks through their little bubble.

"Mama, can you please stop kissing Daddy?! He has to take me and Adam to kinny-garden."


	6. Accidents and Fates

Based on a gif set on tumblr that spoke to me- emmaaswaan: _After an accident, Emma and Killian end up at the hospital, both hurt, but Killian is still not opening his eyes._

* * *

Emma opens her eyes slowly, confused. All she can see is bright lights and white everything, and a horrible beeping noise just won't quit. She knows the sound, is familiar with it, but her mind is still fuzzy around the edges, so she can't place it. More sounds, more lights that she can't focus on, and faces that are blurry. Whale. Hospital!

She sits up, pain radiating through her chest and back. "Miss Swan, you need to lay back down. Your body needs to rest and heal."

"Killian. Where's Killian?" Flashes are coming back to her now. Danger. Home Office, a new set of villains. The cannery again. Only this time, an explosion and fire. Killian had been with her, determined to help her investigate.

"I'm going to him right now, Miss Swan. The Captain was adamant that we see to your injuries first." He waved to his nurse, distracting her, so Emma didn't see the needle until too late; couldn't stop the sedative from slipping into her bloodstream, pushing her down into sleep.

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The next time she opens her eyes, she looks to either side quickly and as covertly as she can—which is not very considering the injuries and the drugs. Mary Margaret is there at her side before she can pretend to be asleep. "Emma, honey, it's okay. You're going to just fine. You're in the hospital; you have some badly bruised ribs and a few cuts."

"Killian. Mom, where's Killian?" Snow looks over at the bed next to hers, tears gathering in her eyes. Emma's head suddenly feels heavy, incapable of following her brain's command to turn; like a part of her knows exactly what she'll see and is preventing her from knowing the truth. He's propped on his side, so that he's facing Emma's bed.

"We found him curled around you. He was still awake and coherent, and he said that he'd tried to shield you from the blast. He insisted that Dr. Whale treat you personally first, and it wasn't until one of the triage nurses tried to take a piece of metal out of the back of his neck…"

"But he's fine, right? He's just being a stubborn ass and-" She's trying to deny what she's seeing; that the bandages are just covering up his hair, not that it was shaved off during surgery. Just like the machines whirring and beeping next to him aren't breathing for him and keeping him alive. "Killian! Open your eyes, damn it!"

It takes two nurses to subdue her and another to administer a second sedative.

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He must be dreaming, because it's the only explanation that he can come up with. He remembers the blast at the cannery, the ride in the ambulance where Emma wouldn't wake up. He was frantic, furious with the ridiculous staff at the hospital who wouldn't tell him a bloody thing… And then he was here, sitting in a dark room with a screen (a movie theatre, his memory supplies), but on it are his bits of his life. Things that he has done, both bad and good. He can hear a whispering, a hissing sound; parts of his life go faster than others, some get replayed over and over. He finally gets curious, walking closer to the screen.

"I'm telling you, it should be over. How many lifetimes has he had after all?"

"More than one, but he's hardly the first person to cheat us this way. I still haven't heard a good enough argument from the two of you to sway me one way or the other."

There's a loud racket that he can't identify, but the two voices have him further intrigued. He turns the corner to find three women sitting on a couch in front of the screen. The smallest of them seems no more than a child of six or seven. She's slamming something repeatedly against her fist, before she stands on the couch and looks back toward the wall. "Argus! Queue up my closing argument, will ya? This remote's a piece of junk!"

"Language, dear." (A woman about Emma's age)

"Mind your manners, missy!" (Someone who looks an awful lot like Granny)

"Argus, please Queue it up for me." The screen blanks for a moment, but the up comes a picture, a moving moment that he has seen a thousand times in his memories, but never like this. He has no idea what type of magic this is, but he can see himself and her, as Emma asks him if he really saved her father. He remembers his heart hammering in his chest already, suddenly nervous at finding himself alone with her. He'd felt terrified and uncertain for this first time in years, all because her father had praised him in her hearing. And then her mother had toasted him too, making him blush worse than the first time he remembers setting foot in port as teenager, finally understanding what a whore did for a living (he'd naïvely thought them to be simple very friendly women as a lad).

"Okay stop! This right here, sisters; this says it all. Now, I know what you're thinking: it's just another kiss. But I can assure you that this says everything about the way he feels for her. Watch. You see the way his hand comes up to cup her head, but he still hesitates, unsure of his welcome. And then here, finally kissing her back, but still just as shocked, as surprised, as breathless as he was when she gripped his collar and dragged his lips down to hers. He can't help himself, is compelled to touch her hair, as if by feeling that he'll somehow know that all of this is real, and not just an elaborate fantasy constructed for him out of his own desires by his mind or by Pan.

"It's why he doesn't really hold onto the back of her head, why he pulls away at first, expecting the kiss to be something short and simple…because with her, he can't even trust the evidence of his senses. She is a mystery, unknowable, and yet he desperately wants to discover all her secrets. But that is why this can't be real; she can't be kissing him senseless because surely the princess, the sheriff, his saviour would never do such a thing. And yet, his senses aren't deceiving him. He's breathless, witless, senselessly in love with her, and yet he has no clue that she feels precisely the same way. She's just kissed the socks off of him! Now watch her. That face right there: she's just as moved by that kiss as he is; she smiles because she knows that he'll walk to the ends of the earth if that's what she asked of him. She'll fight us for him, sisters. So, I say that we send him back to her. She, at the very least, deserves that much. Wouldn't you agree?"

"Oh, fine! You're such a bleeding heart romantic!" The old crone, who seems to be the one who spoke about things being over, raises her hands toward the ceiling as if in surrender.

_Killian, wake up. Killian, wake up._

He hears a voice, echoing in the large theatre—soft and low, yet it drowns out whatever the three women are saying to each other.

_Killian, wake up. Killian, wake up. Killian, wake up. Killian, wake up! KILLIAN, WAKE UP!_

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His eyes flutter open. He sees Emma, asleep across from him. Tears are streaming down her temple and into her hair. She whimpers again, begging for him, pleading with him to wake up. He tries to lift his arm, but he finds it loaded down with wires and tubes. He starts coughing, discovering another tube that's sticking out of his mouth. He pulls it out, nearly gagging when he realizes that it goes down his throat and into his chest. But he keeps going, removing it and all the other odds and ends attached to his body, tossing aside all of these things that are preventing him from getting to his Swan, to his Emma. When the nurses and doctors finally come rushing in, it's to see Killian Jones curled up beside Emma Swan in her hospital bed. When they try and get him up so they can run tests, he quietly but creatively damns them all to hell and threatens whoever wakes her up. Can't they bloody tell that the lass is injured and needs her rest?


	7. Kissing A Fool

Emma's fairly certain that she's never been so furious with any one human being in her entire life. That complete idiot! Two men, both more than a couple of centuries old, and they have the gall to fight over the simple operation of a stupid lighter! As if this were the dawn of time, and your ability to secure a female rested on your fire-making skills! After she had _told_ him that it wasn't a contest! He's the one who bloody well called her an open book, but apparently he somehow forgot how to read?! How much plainer did she have to get with him?! And, of course, once they are out of mortal danger, he goes back to obeying her every command and leaves her behind to deal with her ex!

And since when has she ever cursed something by calling it "bloody"? Since she started spending time with Killian _fucking_ Jones, that's when! Not even randomly hacking at the leaves that even dare come within two feet of her path lessens her anger, her rage. "Easy there, Swan! What did the bloody plants ever do to you?"

And that comment is what sends her over the edge. "They got in my way; they annoyed me and provoked my wrath. So, if you don't mind, I plan on massacring as many as I can!"

Neal shrugs over Emma's head and mouths the word "women" at Killian; unfortunately, this sends Jones straight into her war path. "I said-if you don't mind!"

He wheels around to face an even more irate Emma than the one of a few second past, allowing Neal to escape unscathed and continue down the path toward Tink's treehouse. "Well maybe I bloody well do mind, Swan! Except for the fact that I have no bloody clue why you seem so upset! I acted like a stupid git and a ruddy fool back there, fighting with Neal over a bloody candle. Are you happy now?"

Instead of backing down, she gets even closer, going toe to toe with him. "No, I'm not! I'm pissed off at you because that little stunt nearly got you killed! Do I have to spell it out for you?"

"Maybe you do! Sometimes you're like an open book, and others it's like a need a bloody translator, Emma! I already said I'm sorry for fighting with Neal—what more do you want?"

She fists his coat in her hands and shakes him violently. "I want you to promise me that you won't pull some stunt and get killed! I can't lose you, Jones!"

She lets go of him suddenly, as is the black leather was suddenly burning hot. It's so quiet after their shouting match that not even the never-bugs disturb the silence. Understanding and disbelief fill his eyes as she continues to stare at her hands and then at the ground when she shoves them into her pockets. He takes a step closer, filling the distance she created between them, and uses his good hand to lift her trembling chin. He doesn't even need a hand to count the number of times he has seen her cry; her terror and distress are tangible things, and he's never hated such emotions as he does right now.

When all she sees is compassion in his eyes, she can't stand it anymore and wraps her arms around his waist, burying her face against his heart. She doesn't understand it herself, but all she wants is reassurance that he's still alive, that she hasn't lost him. He reaches his hand up to stroke her hair, doing his best to gentle and soothe her. "I'm here, love. I'm not going anywhere. I would never willingly leave you. It's alright. I'm here."

When she finally lifts her head, she can't stop herself from kissing him. And unlike the challenge of their first, this one is soft, nearly chaste in its tenderness. But the feel of his heart beating strong beneath the palm of her hand, the seductive brush of his lips against hers is more electric. The fire of anger that was racing through her blood now glows a more passionate shade, feeding a different hunger. This time Killian ends the kiss, as if he can sense her vulnerability. "I'm sorry that I scared you, love. But until your son is back in your arms, I will take as many risks as I dare. There is nothing I wouldn't do to secure your happiness, Emma. Now, let's go get your boy Henry."


	8. A Little Drop of Poison

Based on the following tumblr prompt: hushabye-mountain: _Emma is under a sleeping curse and when Neal tries to kiss her she doesnt wake. Hook attempts and she does._

* * *

"Gram! Gramps! Come quickly!" Snow and David rush up the stairs in response to Henry's frantic yelling. Charming gets there quickest, on account of his longer legs and the fact that his wife is moving around a little more cautiously now that she's pregnant. He skids to a halt and takes in the scene—his daughter is sprawled on the ground, not moving and, more importantly, not breathing.

"Emma! Emma, honey!" He feels for a pulse, but gets nothing; panic nearly overwhelms him. "Snow, call 911 now! Henry, what happened?"

His wife had dashed to the phone on Emma's nightstand and is already speaking to the operator at the hospital, but Henry is gone. David checks for broken bones and blood, but can't find anything. "Henry!"

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Father and son come rushing into the hospital together, Neal bellowing Emma's name at the top of his lungs. Everyone knows that there's only one person he could be looking for, so the subdued and mourning hospital staff just point them in the right direction. When they reach the room, they find Snow White weeping uncontrollably; she has her forehead pressed to her daughter's, tears appearing to flow down both women's cheeks. Charming isn't openly crying, but he has one hand on his wife's shoulder and the other is smoothing over Emma's disheveled curls.

"Henry! We were so worried! What-?"

"It's going to be okay; I brought my dad." He says it with all the surety and conviction of youth, breaking his grandparents' hearts all over again. "He can save her. I know he can."

"Oh, Henry!" Snow drags him into her arms, stroking his hair and sobbing even harder. Neal immediately asked Charming what had happened—were there any warning signs? What did the doctors tell them? Did she suffer at all before the end?

"No, you guys aren't getting it! Dad, you can save Mom; she just needs True Love's Kiss. Don't you see? Once you kiss her, and she wakes up, then she'll know that you are meant to be together. My Mom can finally have her happy ending!" Snow looks at him doubtfully, David with a wary hope, and Neal looks shocked. Charming clears his throat before putting a hand on his grandson's shoulder.

"Henry, sometimes, there are things that even True Love can't fix."

The boy backs away, shaking his head as if to deny the truth of his grandfather's words. He slips around the bed to where Neal is. "I _know_ this can work, Dad. You just have to believe. I know you love her and that she loves you. You have to _believe_."

When he looks to her parents, he can see the same worry for Henry in their eyes. But they also nod their approval—the sooner he discovers that the real world doesn't always have a fairytale ending, the better. Neal takes a moment, perhaps to gather his thoughts or his courage, and after one last glance at an impatient Henry, he leans forward and places a gentle kiss on Emma's cold lips.

No rush of magic. No rainbow-shot wind ruffles through the fabric of reality.

"I—I don't understand… This was supposed to work! It has to work! Maybe you need to believe harder."

Suspicion starts to cloud Snow's gaze. "Henry, what do you-?"

A cacophony of angry shouts echoes down the hall, startling the somber group. Several people are noisily headed this way in the midst of several heated arguments it sounds like, but one voice comes out loud and clear above the others. "I don't give a bloody damn who you are; get out of my way or so help me your clean white halls are going to be redecorated with a more apt crimson hue! Now move!"

Hook storms in, only to halt as if he's run into a brick wall; which wouldn't have been so bad if Regina and Gold hadn't come in right on his heels. "I got a call from the nurse that Emma was admitted, but that Henry wasn't with you two. What's going on?"

"My question first, dearie. Someone broke into the back of my shop this morning—used my supplies and equipment, but I don't know what they made."

"Swan?!" Neal gets up and moves Henry aside so that Hook can pay his respects. Since coming back from Neverland, Emma and the pirate had become a team, working the sheriff's station together. He figures that she's the closest thing that Jones has had to a friend or family in centuries.

"No, Dad! You have to try again! You have to wake her up! True Love's Kiss is the only thing that can wake her up!"

All of the adults zero in on Henry, who gulps audibly at having their collective attention. David kneels down so he's closer to his grandson's level. "Before everyone else got here, you said, 'it was supposed to work.' And twice now, you said that your Dad could 'wake her up.'"

Henry suddenly finds the floor and his shoes very interesting. "Henry Daniel Mills! Did you break into your grandfather's shop and make a Sleeping Curse?"

He cringes, but to his credit, he looks around at everyone with clear regret in his eyes. "I—I just wanted Emma and my Dad to be together. Every time I tried to convince her, she just said that it was complicated and that I'd understand when I was older… I remembered the ingredients—from when you made the curse for Gramps last year. I knew I couldn't just ask Grandpa, so… I told Dad I wanted to learn how to pick a lock."

Snow jumped out of her chair and had to be restrained by David. "You let my grandson watch you create a curse?!"

Regina rounded on Neal faster than a snake strike. "You taught my son how to pick locks like a common thief?!"

Now it was Cassidy's turn to look sheepish and contrite. "He was curious! You know? And I thought it would be a good bonding experience. Which it was!"

"But why didn't it work, Grandpa? Dad kissed her, and True Love's Kiss is supposed to break any curse!"

Rumplestiltskin looks down at his grandson with a withering expression. "Henry, Henry, Henry… First order of business is that there are many dangerous things in my shop; you could have been severely harmed or killed yourself. Don't ever go in there by yourself again. Second, I think all of us are agreed that you should not be exposed to any more magic that is strictly necessary, and that you should certainly not be the one performing it. Lastly, the kiss may not have worked for a couple a reasons. By making the spell yourself from memory, you could have combined the ingredients incorrectly. If that's the case, then no manner of kiss will revive her. However, have you considered the fact that maybe your mother was right, when she told you that your father wasn't her True Love?"

He tilts his cane toward the bed, and Henry spins to see what his Grandpa is trying to show him. While everyone else has been fighting and arguing, Captain Hook has stayed right by Emma's side. The pirate looks absolutely devastated, broken…lost. He's talking softly to her, brushing her cheek with the backs of his fingers, and rearranging the stray golden curls. Nothing else in the world seems to matter to him, and nothing interrupts his quiet grieving. Regina, Neal, Snow, and David are all too busy fighting, but they might as well not be there as far as he's concerned.

Slowly, as if he senses their scrutiny, Killian looks over his shoulder at Henry and Rumplestitlskin. The old man actually gives him an encouraging nod and a smile, while her boy looks at him with a faint glimmer of hope. He looks down at Emma—his savior—his lady, if she'll have him; he summons up all the faith he has in her, all the love he bears for her in his body, and kisses her.

A bright, white shockwave—a pulse of pure energy causes the very ground to tremble. The lights flicker and go out, while all the machines in the hospital, in the entire town start whirring and shrieking. When the lights come back on, shouts and cries of joy join the ruckus—Emma is sitting up, smiling and laughing in the arms of her pirate.


	9. Love is Sacrifice

When Pan's blade slid into her back, Emma lost control of her magic and the protective barrier she had thrown up to keep everyone else away from the fight. Everyone else being Killian, because while her parents and Neal had escaped back to the Jolly Roger with Henry, Rumplestiltskin and Regina knew that only Emma could win this and had stayed as far as possible from the actual showdown. She fell to her knees, but Killian was there to catch her before she completely collapsed. He touched the wound, his hand coming away bright with blood. "No! Stay with me, darling. Don't fall asleep! Regina! Gods, Emma love, what were you thinking?!"

She smiled up at him, an expression marred by her grimace of pain. "Couldn't—let him hurt you. His curse—broken—only sacrifice."

"Shh! I—it was a rhetorical—Gods damn it! Regina! Bloody get over here and heal her!" He feels the tentative brush of her fingers against his cheek, so similar to the last time he held a woman like this.

"For you. Couldn't have—done this—without you. Believe…" She closed her eyes for a second too long. He shook her roughly, her eyelids fluttered open.

"NO! Stay with me, love! I can't lose you, Emma. What the bloody hell do I live for if you leave me?! I love you, you infuriating woman."

She smiled again, rubbing her head against his chest. "See—soon… Love…"

He felt her heart stop beating, felt her body melt bonelessly into his. He didn't feel rage, just a horrible, piercing pain through his chest. He was crushed, torn, shattered, severed, tortured, cut, broken—his madness burst from his throat in an agonized howl of grief. Tears coursed down his cheeks, bathing her face, yet not cleansing his soul. A voice speaks from somewhere above his head.

"Dead is dead, dearie. Magic can do many things, but not that. Love on the other hand… Now that, can conquer anything."

Killian looked up at the man who seemed to address him, but could not find a name in his memory—the only word he knew was Emma.

Dying hurt. There wasn't any cold or numbness; no gentle fading into the light. It's almost as if your body decided on one last surge of sensations before you could fall into nothing. But there was so much going on all at much, so much to feel that your brain can only translate as pain. The stubble on his jaw—like knives slicing into her fingertips; his body where he cradled her—like a bed of sharp stones breaking her back. But the real torment was watching despair and hopelessness take over his beloved face.

She knows what her brain is telling her mouth to say, but based on the growing agitation and agony in Killian's eyes, it's probably not coming out right. But she keeps trying. "I had to protect you. I couldn't have let Pan hurt you anyway, but don't you see? His curse can only be broken with a sacrifice. I did this for you because I love you. I couldn't have done it otherwise, not without you. You made me believe in myself and believe that I could love again. Have faith, and then I'll see you soon, my love."

_Love is sacrifice. Love is strength. Truthful, brave, and unselfish. Love is the most powerful magic in all the realms. Love is sacrifice. Love is strength…._

Love is sacrifice—being willing to die so that others may live; love is strength—Killian is her strength. And she doesn't need a kiss to prove that, just him by her side when she falls. And she doesn't press their lips together, just gives him the power he needs to make magic happen.

Bright star-bursts of light dance behind his eyelids the instant he brushes his lips across hers. Two ringing cries fill the air—one of triumph and one of defeat. For the first time in a long time, sunlight bathes every nook and cranny of Neverland, banishing the darkness. The boy known as Peter Pan is just a dried, shriveled husk, and Emma… He's almost afraid to open his eyes, but he's too hopeful not to. Killian Jones has seen many things, but the smile on her face and the pure love glowing for him in her eyes is the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. "You did it, love! You bloody brilliant, amazing, beautiful, infuriating woman, you bloody well did it!"

Her smile becomes a grin and then a laugh that tugs at his heart in the best possible way. "Does that surprise you?"


	10. Save the Last Dance (For Me), Part 1

As a general rule, Princess Emma didn't _hate_ balls, per se… She'd just rather spend time in an ogre prisoner of war camp than be forced to wear a corset tight enough to cut off her oxygen and blood supplies, heels high enough to make her as tall as her father, and a minimum of 20 pounds worth of dress. But it was the expectation that she be graceful, courteous, regally aloof yet polite, _and_ that she agree to dance with almost every eligible man in the room (regardless of rank or whether he was in possession of all his senses) that really rankled her whenever Queen Snow White decided that there was some obscure holiday to celebrate. So, when her mother had clapped her hands and immediately launched into party planning and list making when her husband, King David, had announced that he intended to promote a particularly bright young naval officer to the rank of Captain, it had struck both of her parents as slightly suspicious that their outspoken oldest child did not kick up more of a fuss.

Granted, the lieutenant was a childhood companion of Emma's, the youngest son of a Duke, who had been raised with the expectation of needing to secure his own fortunes through fame or marriage; Lord Killian Dereves had chosen the first option like his older brother Liam (who had entered the army), dropping his honorary title on joining the kingdom's military and becoming a midshipman not long after his fourteenth birthday. He was now twenty-one, just a few years older than the princess he once rode to hounds with as a youth. No matter the mission, every vessel he served on came home crowned with success; he was able to instill discipline and loyalty into his crew, earn the respect of his fellow officers and often the admiring praise of his commanders. Thus, it was not due to his exalted connections, but rather his own hard work and diligent efforts that prompted the King to advance his career.

Emma weathered the planning of this particular grand event looming on her horizon quite well, comparatively speaking. She and the queen only had five arguments over the design of her dress and the height of her shoes—soundly trouncing the previous record low of twenty-three—and she actually had a firm opinion on the menu items for the feast (as a friend, she was the perfect source of information for the chatelaine and cook on what foods were the honoree's favourite). Not only this, but she did not complain much during the various meetings with the tradesmen and women who were arranging supplies, nor fidget during a single dress fitting. Queen Snow was thrilled at this sudden change, convinced that the years of instruction in decorum and etiquette were finally bearing fruit; King David was a little less sanguine about his wife's view of the mystery that was their daughter these days, but he was willing to concede that perhaps she had finally fully come to terms with the duties laid upon her as a princess and heir to the throne.

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Finally, the day of the ball arrives! She's actually been up since before sunrise, breathing a sigh of relief when she opens the doors of her balcony and sees that the _Honor of the Realm_ has arrived safely sometime during the night. The gray pre-dawn and flickering torchlight from the dockside customs office give Emma just enough light to make out the distinctive green and yellow lines that mark it as a vessel of the King's Navy. She says a quick prayer of thanks to the gods and the sea for bringing him back safely, as always. The last year waiting for him to return has been torturously long, though thankfully alleviated by letters that arrived every month or so. If there's one thing in the world she's envious of it's that, as the heir, she cannot travel too far; even though she is a little more expendable than she was five years ago when the queen unexpectedly became pregnant again and gave birth to Emma's brother, Prince James. A miracle baby, it had been declared and celebrated throughout the kingdom after the boy's safe delivery; not that he will_ for certain _take his sister's place in the succession, for he's still far too young to even be considered, still has many years of training in politics and diplomacy yet to be drilled into him before he _could_ take on the responsibilities of a title.

Emma had known practically from the moment her mother said "ball" that she was going to have an atrociously long day of essentially doing nothing to prepare her for the many events of the evening—the formal reception, the informal reception, the feast, the entertainment, the fireworks, and then the dancing. Thankfully, all of the hair styling, skin treatments, and even most of the dressing process will be accomplished by several someone elses, so she'll be able to blissfully nap through most of it. But she also knew that she'd be far too jittery to be able to sit through it with grace, sanity, and dignity intact unless she did something active with her day, so she had specifically requested last night that their Master of Horse have her mare saddled for an early morning ride. She had also commanded her maids to have her riding clothes ready—matching leather vest, pants, and split skirt in a deep green with a linen blouse—and to wake her at dawn.

As she lightly trips her way down the stairs, she hears the rather unpleasant voice of one of the foreign ambassadors ringing through the front hall of the palace and silently groans. King Midas of El Dorado was forever trying to make an alliance with her parents, and the sticking point was _always_ his insistence that she marry one of his many redundant offspring. The mad king was rapacious for more than just treasure—he wanted power and to have all of his neighbors under the thumb of his children (who were of course all in turn under his thumb). Thankfully, David and Snow were secure in the love of their people and in possession of one of the finest Navies in the all the realms—which was true in any case, regardless of Emma's admittedly biased opinion on the subject. But even if they were not, the king and queen felt very strongly on the subject of marriage, particularly in their aversion to pre-arranged, mercenary, loveless matchmaking. Midas' current envoy at their court was a sly, limping little man who spoke with too many dramatic flourishes and who giggled like a child at the slightest piece of witty repartee.

Emma lifts her chin, looking down at the huddled group of courtiers from the vantage point of her graceful, long neck and the final landing of the grand staircase. As one, the Doradians sweep into elaborate bows, waiting for her to finish her descent. Baron Corrugo Aurum, aforementioned obsequious ambassador, rises first and rushes to hand her down the final steps. She's grateful for the protective leather of her gloves and barely manages to stop herself from wiping them on her skirts. She nods to the group of dignitaries and noblemen with a chilly politeness that would do her mother proud. "Baron Aurum. Gentlemen. I am surprised to see you all have risen so early this morning. I would have thought that, between last night's late audience and this evening's ball to prepare for, you would not have been so quick to leave your beds."

"We tend to be early risers in El Dorado, preferring to take a small pause during the hottest hours of the day for a rest and then resuming our work. As you can see, the Comtese Gemma Rubinia is not with us, as she is preparing herself for the festivities; she is, how do you say?... Most eager and fervent in her desire to impress you this evening." Apparently highly confused and indignant at the number of offspring Emma had rejected, according to her spies in the Doridian court, Midas had decided that sending a wider selection of his children with each new embassy might just be the one strategy he had neglected. And, while she had to admit that there was a certain something special about Gemma aside from her very obvious beauty, nothing could ever persuade her into the other young woman's bed given the identity and nature of her sire; furthermore, when compared to the brother also attached to this round of treaty negotiations, Vicomte Ignis Anguillam, Gemma was an infinitely preferable choice of bedfellow, spouse, and consort.

Despite being Midas' heir—or more probably because he was simply one of so many—Ignis had been to their kingdom several times to offer for Emma's hand in marriage. Frankly, she's considered actually giving away one of her hands to the insufferable bore, so long as either the treaty were concluded or she'd never have to go through with the whole "in marriage" clause of the contract. The vicomte could be charming when he chose to be and was as physically handsome as his sister was beautiful, but he was also a preening peacock who believed that a throne was no place for a woman. In all of the years that she had been acquainted with him, he had never acknowledged her authority to discuss matters of state or her voluminous input during negotiations. He was an heir in his own right, and she should be falling all over herself to please him, placate him, and pander to his vanity. She suddenly has a delightful bit of inspiration on how to shake these particularly annoying fleas. "I'm sorry to have missed the opportunity to see her! I also will be preparing for the ball most of the day, however I do require some fresh air and exercise which is why you see me dressed for such. Would you gentlemen care to join me for a ride? There are some lovely hunting runs through the park, and although I don't foresee bringing down any boar or stag, what could be more beneficial than the exercise provided by a stirring chase!"

Both the baron and Ignis visibly paled at her mention of hunting. The vicomte had been in a particularly embarrassing riding accident the last time he had been to the Summer Palace. King David had forbidden anyone to ever speak of it again; naturally, Emma had regaled Killian with the story when he'd visited just before his voyage, insisting that it wasn't so much the Vicomte Anguillam's drunkenness as his inflated ego that horse could no longer carry nor tolerate. The poor stallion had been banished to one of her father's smaller estates prior to this latest détente. She also notices that both of the guards stationed at the palace doors begin coughing, discreetly if a touch suspiciously. "Our many thanks, your Grace, for your kind invitation. Alas, we are expected by your father the King within the hour, and thus cannot accompany you on what will most certainly be an exceptionally fair outing."

"Oh? That's odd, for I was fairly certain that several ships had returned home from further realms, and that their Majesties would be receiving the officers and their reports for the better part of the day. How silly of me to think that I would know the business of my parents and the kingdom! Good day, gentlemen." She held out her hands, one to each of them; she may shudder internally at allowing them to kiss any part of her, but putting them in their place was just too good of an opportunity to pass up. Emma breezes past them and their entourage quickly, nodding and smiling to the guards who—coughing fits subsided—wear open grins of admiration for their princess. She races to the stables and is out riding to the park within minutes, because as desperate as she is to see Killian again, she knows that forcing the both of them to pretend indifference to each other during the long, tedious affairs that official audiences can become would be nothing short of either disastrous to their plans or maddeningly torturous.


	11. Save the Last Dance (For Me), Part 2

The walk from the _Honor's_ berth along the quay to the palace is a relatively short one, and even though he knows his princess well enough to know that she'll make herself scarce, Killian can't help but chafe at the slow, dignified pace of his commander, Captain Victor Baleine. Also the son of a nobleman, Captain Baleine has been the single most difficult officer Killian has had the misfortune of serving under; however, he does run the most disciplined and well-trained crew in the entire Navy, so overlooking his occasional disagreeableness and sense of entitlement is relatively easy on a good day. But on a day when they have arrived after a successful voyage and must attend a royal audience for their reports and those of several other naval commanders all while knowing that there is going to be a ball honoring his Lieutenant's promotion (and not his own) has apparently caused the older man to be on his most insufferably, disdainfully aristocratic behaviour. About fifteen years older than Lieutenant Dereves and a friend of his eldest brother (Augustus, heir to the Dukedom), it had also taken him a considerably longer amount of time to obtain his own promotions through the ranks. He does admire the younger man, but the bite of envy still stings.

As they are dismounting at the front steps of the palace, they see a streak of red-brown, green, and gold speed away from the stables and out across the park toward the hunting runs. Killian's heart seizes in his chest, thanking the gods that he at least caught sight of her and has this image of her, wild and impossibly untamable, to see him through the seemingly endless number of hours until the ball this evening. He's dreamed about her, longed for the day when he'd see her again since the instant he last saw her, just over a year ago before this last voyage began; but he's yearned for this particular day for far, far longer than that. "Jones! I've called your name thrice now—we musn't keep their Majesties waiting, Lieutenant."

"Apologies, Captain. I was lost in my thoughts; I suppose being on land again makes one lose one's bearings."

"Just so long as you remember your place and your manners throughout the admiralty session. It would not do for _my_ Lieutenant to be caught woolgathering when he should be paying attention to the proceedings and the newest mandates from the crown. Even if you are to be receiving your own commission soon, your every fault as well as your strengths reflect back on my capability as a commander, and I will not have any weakness of your part today. Are we understood?"

"Aye, Captain. It shall not happen again." Killian sighs internally, refusing to let his commander's foul mood spoil any part of this day. He nods politely to the guards—both of whom he knows from his youth—and asks after their families quietly; Baleine shakes his head at the Lieutenant's lack of social distinction, yet piqued because he is required to produce his commission in ordered to be identified and allowed to pass. As they enter, Killian notices the Doridian courtiers having a heated discussion in Agrabahn of all languages. Thanks to being a fosterling of the king's and thus having access to the same tutors and educational opportunities as the princess, he has long been multilingual—something that often came in handy when dealing with various foreign merchants, traders, and pirates. From Emma's descriptions of them in various letters sent to him while at sea and stolen, moonlit conversations in the gardens below her chambers, he handily recognizes the sniveling shorter man as the ambassador and the tall fop as the Vicomte who refuses to take no for an answer regarding a marriage alliance.

"She should be groveling at my feet, Aurum! That bitch needs to be brought to heel, and I'm just the man to do it. She's been allowed far too much leniency; we need to act decisively."

"I understand completely, my prince, and what's more, I agree with you. She does seem rather taken with Gemma Rubinia…perhaps we could find a way to use that to our advantage? If your sister and the princess were to be caught _in flagrante delicto_, then she would have no choice but to accept the match."

"No! Emma is mine to tame! I can share her with Gemma, but only after—" The foreign aristocrats finally move out of Killian's hearing, a fact for which he is both grateful and concerned as listening while appearing neither understand their plans nor be thoroughly concerned and disgusted taxed even his diplomatic skills. As soon as he is certain they are also beyond sight of the doors, he waves over one of the guards, the dwarf Dopey.

"Please get Stealthy. Those men are up to something and bear watching. We might also need to increase the number of guards this evening. Will Grumpy be at the audience?"

The mute dwarf salutes him to indicate the receipt of the order and nods to inform Killian of his brother's presence at court. Snow White's most trusted "older brother," Grumpy commands the palace guards and handles all security matters for the members of the royal family. Stealthy, apropos of his name, oversees the corps of agents and informers primarily inside the kingdom; until recently, he had also maintained their spy network abroad, but Emma had taken over as a part of her training to one day be queen. Both she and Killian are very direct people, preferring a frontal assault as opposed to using any sort of tact, yet their respective roles in maintaining peace and prosperity for their people required that they at least learn how to be diplomatic. Thankfully, as a soldier, he's not as frequently called upon to use those skills. He prefers to leave the politics to Emma, but a plot to discredit her and force her into marriage is something he can't ignore. _And as long as you're jumping in anyway…_

When Lieutenant Dereves and Captain Baleine are finally admitted to the royal audience chamber, it is with a large assortment of their fellow officers and peers of the realm. He nods to Doc who enters and has a brief, quiet conference with Grumpy who appears even more dour than usual once his brother finishes speaking; the older dwarf hands his staff of office to the other, nodding and giving a slight bow to Killian on his way out. The dwarves know about the attachment between the princess and the lieutenant and have practically since the beginning; with eight uncles who are all part of the kingdom's military in some capacity or another, it would have been nearly impossible for the couple to have any time alone together, never mind slipping into or out of the palace grounds undetected. So, they'd taken the dwarves into their confidence, ensuring that they had proper chaperones who could also be persuaded to give them a little privacy from time to time. Killian briefly wonders if one of the dwarves let slip part of his and Emma's plan and if that information has prompted Vicomte Anguillam into taking more drastic measures; but he dismisses the thought almost immediately. The dwarves are entirely loyal to the Charming family, so if something has been said, it's much more likely to be a disgruntled servant or a member of the court who has seen he and Emma together in the past. Either answer is more than a little disturbing to him, but he knows that with the dwarves on alert, his princess will be safe.

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Grumpy returns to the admiralty session about an hour later, during Victor's report on the successful trade negotiations made with the port city-state of Orlea. He speaks briefly with his bespectacled brother before resuming his post; Doc disappears from sight momentarily—a common occurrence when dealing with a mixed race crowd—only to reappear at Killian's elbow with a folded parchment and an encouraging, grateful handshake.

_Pirate,_

_ Extra guards in place. Bad hatchling found; Swan safe in nest. Good luck, kid._

He smiled to himself, remembering very well the conversations he had had with all of the dwarves at one point or another on his decision to join the Navy in particular. Grumpy had been all for him joining the guards and had taken to calling him a pirate for "deserting" him when Bashful and Sneezy had convinced Killian where his talents and work would be most quickly rewarded. Then of course, he'd pulled the same thing with Liam, calling him Mercenary. Also, the dwarf's ridiculous obsession with writing in code… Clearly, he couldn't think of any clever way to discuss additional security around Emma, but the "bad hatchling" must refer to the servant or other person who had passed the information along to the Doridians. He hadn't expected Grumpy or any of the others to know his plan (since, technically speaking, Emma didn't know he would be speaking with her parents _tonight_), but he supposes that he should just take their knowledge in stride as well as accepting their approval.

The morning hours pass less than swiftly toward noon time. Finally, Queen Snow calls a halt to the proceedings for the lunch meal, catching Killian's eye and regally nodding for him to approach. He waits for his fellow officers to pass and exit the grand chamber before making his way forward. As soon as he reaches the purple carpeting in front of the dais, he kneels and bows his head. Though it was the Queen who summoned him, it is the King who addresses him. "Our brothers tell us that you brought a potentially very disturbing matter to their attention. How was it that you overheard the Doridian ambassador's plan regarding our daughter?"

"As your Majesties know, I was well-educated here at court. Baron Aurum and the Vicomte were speaking in Agrabahn; not only do I understand that language, but while Captain Baleine conducted the trade agreement with Orlea, I was able to brush up on my speech with the various dignitaries. The Agrabahn envoy was pleased to converse with someone more than passing familiar with both his native tongue and the game of Hazard. Apart from that, you can confirm with both Dopey and my captain, Lord Victor Baleine, that they envoy's entourage and the Vicomte were discussing the matter quite publicly. No doubt they failed to account for anyone nearby being able to not only hear, but also to fully comprehend their schemes. Naturally, my first impulse was to alert the dwarves to the possibility of a security breach from the inside; it's a clever, devious trick they had planned, and I knew that your brothers would not take the success of such a scheme lightly."

Grumpy audibly huffs and curses at the very thought of how narrowly they avoided this threat to Emma and the kingdom. Queen Snow places a hand on her brother's shoulder as if to let him know that she for one does not blame him or think him derelict in his duty. Together with her husband, she descends the stairs of the dais until she is standing before him, bidding him rise. He cannot help but see his beloved in the lines of her mother's chin, in the color of her sparkling eyes. "You have served us well in this matter, as in all matters, Lord Killian Dereves. Trust us when we say that it will not be forgotten; you may ask of us any boon, and I doubt that there is anything we would deny you for ensuring the safety and health of the Princess Emma."

With heart hammering in his chest, he kneels once more. "If I may speak, I would claim it now. Your Majesties, you have known me since I was a child; you know my character, and you know from my service that there is nothing I would not do to protect you both and the princess. In many ways, your Graces have been more my parents than those who gave me life, and it now lies within your power to make me happy and to be my family in truth. I love your daughter, and I have for quite some time now; every day for the last seven years and more, she has been in my heart and in every waking thought. My service to your Majesties has been service for her, to prove that I am Princess Emma's equal as a man. She knows how I feel, and I believe she feels as I do. I know that I bring no prestige or wealth, marriage to me would not cement an alliance or ensure peace, but I can offer my knowledge and devotion and support to her through all our years together. And as I love her, her happiness above all would be my daily endeavour."

His words are met with a silence that he does not know how to interpret, especially since his eyes are now locked on the floor in obeisance as his speech is finished. King David clears his throat and gestures for Killian to rise. "You think yourself worthy of my daughter?"

"No, your Grace. I think that no man alive could ever hope to deserve Princess Emma, but I can promise that I will never stop striving to be worthy of her love."


	12. The Nightmare

Based on a tumblr prompt by you-run-i-chase: CS "I was scared"

_Chicago is known as the Windy City, but the gale-force winds are a cold knife through all of Emma's layers here in Manhattan. She's running through the concrete, steel, and flesh jungles of New York City, desperately looking for Killian. She lost him in the crowd somewhere, swept away by apathetic, self-centered worker bees and socialites. She's screaming his name, being pushed around by everyone, shoved back and forth between the moving, yet cold bodies. Dead, lifeless eyes don't even focus on her—the people keeping her from Killian aren't malicious, they just don't give a damn. Tears would be streaming down her cheeks if they weren't freezing to her skin, clouding her eyes so that she can't see. Her breathing is difficult, labored because of the biting, clawing cold shredding her throat and her lungs. Finally, blind and breathless, she goes down to her knees, trampled under the feet of uncaring automatons with Killian's name the last word of her dying breath._

* * *

"Emma!" His hands are burning hot brands wrapped around her upper arms. He's on his knees above her, violently shaking her from the fierce grip of her nightmare. When she finally opens her eyes, they are entirely glassed-over as with ice, so that he can barely discern a hint of green. "Gods be merciful!"

He sends a tendril of magic through his hands and into her, meeting a barrier shield of solid, cold crystal. He sends a wave of power—warm and calming—over the block between him and Emma. The spell she's locked in is strong, but the love he feels for her is stronger; two waves later, the shield breaks, and she comes fully awake. She immediately starts crying, clinging to him with a desperation he's never seen before. He wraps her in his arms and rolls them so that they are on their sides. She buries her head into the familiar, warm cradle of his neck, while his hot hands rub life back into every inch of skin he can reach. "I've got you, Emma love. You're safe now."

"I was in New York again. And it was so cold, and I had gotten separated from you. I couldn't see you, couldn't find you, and I was so scared, Killian. They took you from me, and I was scared I wouldn't—"

He pulls the blanket tighter around her body, bundling her up before rising and sweeping her into his arms. He makes the short trip to his favorite chair by their fireplace completely naked, not caring that a servant might enter at any moment. He sets her down gently and kisses the top of her head with a whispered promise that he'll be right back after he gets a blaze going. His heart breaks listening to Emma's broken sobs, making quick work of setting logs and kindling; his fear for her and his anger at his inability to protect her from all harm easily fuel the simple firestarting spell. He goes back to the chair, picking Emma up as if she weighed nothing, and laying the both of them out on the soft rug before the now crackling fire.

She's shivering and still crying softly when he slips under the blanket with her, pressing naked skin to naked skin. She eagerly leans into the furnace of Killian's body and the comforting haven of his arms, reassured by the beating heart beneath her palm. "I was scared I'd lost you."

He gently lifts her hand to his mouth and places a tender kiss against her palm and wrist. "I know, Emma love. It was all a dream, and I'm here. We'll let the fire chase the nightmare away now, shall we? I'll never leave you, my lovely lass, and I would fight with every breath in my body to find my way back to you. You're not in the Netherworld anymore; you're here in my heart and in my arms. I won't let you go, Swan."

His gentle words and soothing touch work a magic of its own, banishing her fears and rousing her ever-present desire for him. Bodies locked together, the flame of their hopes and dreams burns away the darkness of Curses and Night.


	13. Annoying Habit

Based on a tublr prompt from tersaseda: Emma's most annoying habit from Killian's POV

* * *

It's driving him insane. He knew before taking the job as her second deputy that there would be the occasional bit of tension between the two of them—she's as stubborn as her father, as tenacious as her mother, and bloody well right about everything all the time. Yet in all his years, his patience with any human being's foibles and follies has never been this sorely tested. She's sitting at her desk in her office, which is really no different from his and David's except for being enclosed in that claustrophobic glass box; naturally, she left the door wide open, so that he can see her without impediment from his own desk. They are both doing paperwork—rather, she is, and he is unsuccessfully attempting to ignore the fact that she keeps sticking out her tongue in thought, then worrying her lower lip a bit before releasing it with an audible wet pop. Every. Single. Time.

He wonders if he's experiencing some sort of hell dimension, with his greatest desire dangled before him constantly while he is unable to reach out and take it. To make matters worse, when she's thinking she'll drop her hand down to fiddle with her necklace, which of course leads his attention to the creamy skin of her breasts just peeking out at him. And, dear gods, did she just unbutton her blouse further?! Unable to take this torment any longer, he shoves his chair back forcefully and strides out of the office. But he doesn't leave the station. He flips the sign to "on patrol" and locks the outer door. He stalks back into the main portion of the office, firmly grips Emma's hair and tips her head back before plundering her soft, pliant mouth like he's been fantasizing about all morning. He pulls back to look at her dazed, lust-clouded eyes, and she laughs wantonly. "Let's remember to avoid the blinds this time. I think this is a record for us—two whole hours before you couldn't keep your hands off me."

"Gods, I love you, woman!"


	14. Save the Last Dance (For Me), Part 3

Emma knows that something has gone wrong the instant she dismounts because she can see her uncle Stealthy waiting in her horse's stall. It's a non-verbal code well-established between them to covertly announce the relative magnitude of a potential situation brewing, and given that he like the average dwarf remains positively averse to all equines his presence alone communicates the both the high strain for him in particular and extreme importance of his visit. She leads the mare into the stall, beginning the task of removing the tack and caring for her horse. "Tell me."

"Apparently, Dopey and your Lieutenant overheard a very interesting conversation that the Doridian heir and ambassador were having in full view of the front hall. There wouldn't have been much of a problem for them, seeing as it was so early, and they were speaking Agrabahn."

"I was surprised as anyone else to see them there; beginning my mornings with a dose of those obsequious weasels is nowhere near my preference… As far as secrecy goes, they couldn't have landed on a worse time or place to attempt to obscure what they were discussing. It is pure chance that Killian speaks the language far better than even an Agrabahn rug merchant could manage, but I didn't know that Dopey understood it too. We got very lucky, Uncle."

"Indeed, all part of his charm, princess. Most people think that being a mute means that Dopey is stupid; he plays on that prejudice quite well. The problem is that we know _what_ Aurum and Anguillam want to do, but not _how_ they plan to accomplish it. It also worries me that they knew you planned on being up early—who did you share your schedule with?"

Emma pauses in thought, mind distant while her hands work the currycomb brush over her horse's flanks. She told her parents, naturally, which places some of the servers at dinner under suspicion; but she knows that vipers are much more likely to strike somewhere closer to home. "I think it must be one of my maids. There have been two who have had several unexplained absences in the past month; seemingly innocuous events at the time, but I believe those sorts of judgment calls are in your hands now… Let me guess? Somehow my virtue and reputation are to be besmirched?"

She lets out a creative Orlean curse, one Stealthy doubts is even physically possible to accomplish, when he affirms her deduction. "When will they learn? When will they see that my parents for one and the kingdom for another will not let their princess be forced into an arranged marriage? My parents fought to free this land from several yokes of tyranny, and they managed it only because of the power of their Love! El Dorado, Orlea, Agrabah, Petros, Cleland… None of them stand a change of enslaving A'Nalon through any sort of treaty and most certainly not through me! So, what's your dastardly scheme for thwarting this perfidious plot? I know you've got something up your sleeve and that you want me to act as bait—don't deny it! You and Grumpy could have easily handled this in house without even bothering to tell me about it, so cough it up, Uncle mine!"

Stealthy smiles at her ability to make light of what could be a very treacherous situation, reminded of the days so long ago, when he rescued his brother from King George's prisons and inadvertently released a political hostage as well. Emma's audacity and taste for adventure has always rivaled even her mother's, a trait that the Queen desperately wished that she hadn't passed down to her only daughter. "We'd love to have solid evidence against the Doridians this time, and our best chance of getting that is to figure out who our little informer is and turning them back against the saboteurs. If your suspicions are correct, we need to exploit the weaknesses in both your maids; do you have an inkling as to which one it is?"

Emma pulls up the two maids and their recent behavior in her mind's eye; part of her diplomatic training included memory exercises that allowed her to remember vast amounts of conversation and correspondence, but as the only heir for so many years, she has also found that applying them constantly helps in predicaments such as they found themselves in now. With very little difficulty, she was able to identify the culprit quickly. "Of the two of them, Phedre is more likely to forget where she placed her head than to be involved in some form of espionage or foreign intrigue, which leaves Athea d'Outeux. Sadly, I think mother may have been right when she objected to my bringing her back into my service. What do you and Grumpy have in mind?"

They discuss and discard, refine and rethink the various avenues by which the Doridians might come at her and the ways in which their offense might be countered. In the end though, there is always going to be some element of danger involved for Emma, since she is to be the bait for this particular trap. Pretending as if nothing were wrong, she adopts her most relaxed public pose—a slow, graceful gait that resembled the gliding of a swan across a still lake with a faint hint of a smile on her face. She absolutely loathed this pose, something that she put on as if a mask for any sort of public display that she was forced to take part in, for her deportment masters had once likened it to becoming a doll, to transforming oneself into a mirror that people could look into and see themselves or whatever they wanted. Or, as she once put it to Killian, to thinking of herself as a fine painting—pleasant and beautiful to behold, yet lacking a voice or a say in how others interpreted her. Serene indifference was the term she applied to this persona, one deficient in any personality or individual thought; truth be told, this façade was rather what Vicomte Anguillam and all the other preening, self-important suitors over the years had expected from her. They wanted a pretty ornament for their courts, one that would remain silent unless spoken to and would parrot their opinions back to them when asked. Not one of them had ever dared to see if there was a real, flesh and blood woman beneath the mask, because they had never cared to. Only Killian saw the passion and the fire beneath the icy exterior.

She glides past the assembled naval officers in the hall, taking their courtly bows as her due and haughtily greeting a few familiar faces. She knows that he's there amongst them, his presence felt in a certain thrumming in her veins as if his heartbeat and hers are connected somehow, entwined by destiny and their love. She does not see him, but her breath catches in her throat the instant his eyes fall on her and her cheeks blush; she ascends the stairs, careful not to look back for a glimpse of him because she knows that sight will not be enough. If she were to see him, then she would need to touch him; and if she were to touch him, well then all their patience over the last three years would be squandered. Emma has never been more tempted to throw caution to the wind, but this small sacrifice is as much for him as the last three years have been. She knows in her heart that her parents would deny her nothing, that Killian's pedigree and his declaration of love for her would be enough to satisfy her father and secure his blessing. But she also knows her lover's need to prove himself, to take pride and honor in his own merits rather than his family name, is what drove him on this seven year quest. Her heart had melted and several more links in the chain that binds them together were forged when he told her precisely the moment he knew that he loved her. Keeping that memory close, along with the nearly tangible brush of his eyes along her back, she manages to make it to her rooms without revealing their secret.


	15. Confession

She bites her lip in indecision as she follows along behind her parents—so much easier to refer to them this way in her head than out loud. At this precise moment though, Emma kind of wishes that she hadn't broke the curse, if only so that she could have Mary Margaret back. She was the only friend Emma had bothered to make in years—although, really, she hadn't been given much of a choice on the matter, being taken in and given a confidant who was helping her make sense of the sudden enormous responsibility of being a mother and a sheriff and a person with roots and a home. But once the curse broke and everyone recovered their memories of who they really were, her friend Mary Margaret had disappeared and been replaced with someone else. Replaced by Snow White—a woman who was a just a legend and a story here, but who had her own life experiences and expectations… She knows that her mother remembers the time that they spent together as roommates and friends, but talking to one is not the same as talking to the other.

Finally though, it seems that something is going right in her universe because her father falls back a bit from her mother's side. Striding a little ahead of Hook, she comes up even with him and nudges his side. "Fully recovered from your near-death experience yet, David?"

He smiles down at his daughter, not from a great height or anything, but the fact that she at least has to physically look up to him soothes something innate, a protective need inside of him. Her sarcasm reminds him of her mother, but he can see bits and pieces that she inherited from him too. "It takes a lot more than a poisoned arrow to get rid of me, Emma. You should ask Mary Margaret about some of the trouble we used to get into; she'd make it sound more dramatic."

He doesn't push. He knows that something is on her mind, but he doesn't force her confidence. He also doesn't ask to be called Dad or refer to Snow as her Mom. He acknowledges her right to be pissed off and to want a little distance. As much as he wants to protect her and coddle her like the infant he knew her as for five minutes, he resists the urge to do so. "Can I—I really need to talk to someone about something, and while I'd love to talk to Mary Margaret…"

"You'd be talking to a mother instead. I get it Emma, believe me. I didn't find out that I had a twin brother until after he was already dead, so I know what it's like to discover something later than you should. And I also know that breaking the curse has changed things between you and Mary Margaret. So, if you ever need anything-"

"I kissed Hook." Silence. Then confusion. And then a hint of understanding.

"When?"

"Right after we toasted him for saving your life." She looks at him sideways, trying to read his thoughts from his face. David seems to be going back, connecting dots and seeing past events in new ways.

"Okay. So, what is it that you want to talk about?"

Now she really side-eyes him and checks over her shoulder to make sure that Hook hasn't gotten close enough to hear. "Well, I kissed him. Captain Hook—you know, pirate extraordinaire, villain, rogue, and all around scoundrel? He who wears guyliner and leather like a punk-rock poster boy? I kissed him."

"You said that already… Are you expecting me to go into ragingly protective papa-bear mode and kill him? That would hardly be fair since you said that _**you**_ kissed _**him**_. Are you expecting me to tell you that he really is all of those things and that you should never be allowed near him? I learned on our little adventure that there's a lot more to Hook than meets the eye; he may have strayed from "the path of the righteous" for a while, but ever since we got on his ship, he's been nothing but helpful. Not to mention, Emma, I realize that while a part of me will always see in you that tiny little miracle I held in my arms, I lost the right to tell you what to do and who to love when I placed you in that wardrobe."

"Whoa! Whoa! I just kissed him!"

David looks directly into her eyes, an expression on his face that is so similar to her own when people are trying to bullshit her. "Seriously? Emma, I'm not trying to tell you how you feel, but I'm not blind either. And from all I have seen and know of you, nothing is ever "just" when it comes to letting someone in. You trust him; you two work almost seamlessly as a team; and now you've kissed him. I'm not saying you should start picking out color schemes together, but there's definitely something there between you two. And maybe that something is worth looking at a little closer.

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"I guess there's only one way to find out… I kissed Emma."

"Excuse me?!" Snow has an arrow nocked and ready to fly in less time than it takes to blink.

David places his hands gently over hers, making sure to keep pressure on the string to prevent an accident. "Calm down, Snow. Let him finish. If he says that secrets are the price to pay for saving Neal, then just let him speak."

All three of the others look at him as if he's grown a second head. He nods at Hook to continue, but Emma speaks instead. "I already told David, so it's not exactly a secret. But it was just a kiss? How is that something dark that you 'wouldn't tell another soul'?"

"Well, aside from the fact that I'm a gentleman, Emma. My secret is not the kiss itself… it's that when I kissed you, all the lies I kept hiding behind were stripped from my soul; I had been telling myself since I lost my first love, Milah, that I could never hope to find my way out of darkness. But when I kissed you, I realized that I had hope and light back in my life; if I can even be near you, then I have something to live for."


	16. Save the Last Dance (For Me), Part 4

"Ladies. Excellent work, my dears. Would you give us a few moments? I'd like a chance to speak with my daughter alone." The Queen's crisp tones brought a quick end to the excited chattering and twittering going on around the Princess, all of them immediately dropping into graceful curtsies before filing swiftly out the doors. Emma rises from the small divan, smoothing her hands down the brocade of her shimmering blue-green gown nervously; it's the first time she'd had so much say in the cut and color of her gown, aside from open loathing, and she's suddenly desperate for her mother to approve of her choice. Snow White's heart clenches somewhat painfully in her chest, suspecting as she does now just what has motivated this recent change in her beloved child. She glides closer, wishing that Emma would look up instead of staring at her dress as if she were five years old again and in trouble for setting all of the horses "free," liberating them from their stalls. She grasps her daughter's hands in hers, pulling them out to the side and urging her to twirl so that she can see the full effect of the gown. The taffeta silk is a lovely shade, almost a turquoise, gathered into a dropped waist that falls gently off of Emma's hips. The bodice has some light embroidery swirls and whorls in silver thread, with a sprinkling of crystals and pearls—a simple, yet elegant design that now reminds the Queen of sea foam on the crest of a wave. The neckline is modest, yet also curved into a sweetheart shape, with a chiffon band attached to the very center of the bust with a pearl and crystal brooch. From there, the wisp of sheer fabric is twisted gently, wrapping around her upper arms for the illusion of sleeves. The transformation is nearly complete, with her daughter gone from child to woman seemingly overnight. Suddenly, Snow cannot hold back her threatening tears any longer.

"Oh, Emma! You—your father and I had quite the fright about what happened earlier, and now to find you looking so calm and unhurt, unruffled and heartbreakingly beautiful…" She cradles her child's face in her hands, remembering all of the myriad times her wonderful girl has managed to startle, scare, and then surprise her over the years. She brings her handkerchief to her eyes and tries to shake off the fear and sadness that had struck her so forcibly earlier when Stealthy and Grumpy had whispered the news from behind the arras during the admiralty session. She motions for Emma to sit and pulls a settee closer for a chat. "I can see for myself that you're alright, so I'll stop worrying and move on to other matters. A certain young gentleman spoke with me and your father, asking us a very specific question that requires more than an answer from the two of us. He also seems very certain of what _your_ answer will be."

Emma can't stop the blush that creeps into her cheeks, nor the hitch in her breathing as her mother's eyes narrow pointedly. She ducks her head down in the most adorable manner that Snow cannot help but laugh and kiss her forehead joyfully. "Darling! Why didn't you tell us? Well, never mind your father, but I am positively hurt that you wouldn't share something as wonderful as being in love with me at least."

Her teasing tone softens the rebuke, but there is an ache of truth to the words that her daughter feels the need to soothe. "I wanted to, and mother, you have to know that I would have, but he made me promise. Killian… Well, you know Killian—he wanted to wait. First, he said it was because we were both too young, and then it was because I should be free to change my mind in case someone better came along. Finally, in the face of my superior logic and art of persuasion, he begged me not to tell you, because he wanted to prove himself to the kingdom, and to you and Papa most of all."

Emma shrugs and the rolls her eyes, conveying wordlessly the universal feminine exasperated acceptance of the bizarre, obscure mystery that is the working of the masculine mind. She and her mother discuss a few other minor details before the chiming of the hour breaks them out of their happy chattering, throwing the Queen into a bit of a hurry to leave and summon back the ladies-in-waiting so that they can finish dressing the Princess. Absolutely glowing and elated, Emma ignores the frantic scurrying around her as they prepare for the final touches.

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The only time Killian has ever been in the King's study it was as boy, and he had been brought over on horseback by his intimidating father to be examined as to whether he was fit to foster in the royal household. James, Duke Dereves, had put the fear of the gods into his six year old son, all but convincing the terrified boy that he would be swiftly rejected by King David and be the source of shame and embarrassment to his whole house. In reality, he had found himself faced with a kind, gentle faced man who was chasing a happily shrieking three year old Princess Emma while making exaggerated wolf growls. The laughing blonde pair had struck him, first with a sense of bewilderment, then with awe, and then with a pained envy for the joy and love that almost sparkled in the air around them. His father encouraged competition in his sons, not playful roughhousing; Killian and his brothers trembled while in the Duke's presence, and they most certainly did not show him anything remotely resembling affection. In all ways except one, his real father is the man who now pours him a tumbler of brandy, carefully observing his nervousness with a glint of amusement in his pale blue eyes.

"I had met you before, but you probably didn't remember at the time, when the Duke presented you for my 'inspection' as he called it. If I recall, Sleepy told me that you stood absolutely petrified behind him down in the front hall. You really should have seen his face, watching me play with Emma! I'd never seen the old stick look so disgusted and shocked!"

"The old man has only gotten further entrenched in his ways, I'm afraid." Killian smiles as he remembers the last row he witnessed between the Duke and Augustus. The King places his hand fondly on the younger man's shoulder, trying to adequately convey his sense of fatherly pride and approval with the gesture.

"I'm just glad you had the sense the gods gave you to try and do something with your life. Nobility has its place in this world, but there's more to it than bloodlines and names; it's about family, about feeling a kinship with the people who depend on you to lead them through times of trouble and to sustain them through years of plenty. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise: your service was, and is, honorable and _noble_." The double doors of the study swing open under the hands of the Queen, who closes them and slowly moves to join them by the fireplace. Killian's agony only increases as she looks up at her husband, engaging in another silent exchange that he cannot comprehend; it's maddening, torturous waiting for them to have their conversation right in front of him while his entire future happiness hangs in the balance. Finally, with a nod from the King, they both turn to face him with beaming smiles. He practically sags with relief as he releases the breath he's been holding and fills his lungs with air again. David claps him on the shoulder a bit more vigorously this time before pulling him into a bone-crunching embrace. Snow White's hug is softer, more maternal, but no less fierce than her husband's. From a small silk reticule, she produces a white velvet covered box.

"This ring belonged to David's mother. She gave it to him, just as her husband's mother had given it to him. For generations, this ring has been passed down to the men strong enough, wise enough, and brave enough to love truly and love well. Now, it is your turn, Killian. You'll scandalize her ladies, but we really wouldn't have it any other way. Go!" With a grin splitting his face and after a swift kiss to the Queen's cheek, his trembling fingers wrap around the box. He practically runs out the door, footsteps echoing behind him down the marble hallways. David places his hands around his wife's waist, pulling her back against his chest and resting his chin on her shoulder.

"Are the dwarves all standing outside her rooms with axes in hand?"

Snow smiles demurely and tilts her head up for a chaste kiss. "Actually, I'm pretty sure that Stealthy has a pair of throwing blades, but otherwise, you are correct, my dear."


	17. A Captain's Pride (Is A Fragile Thing)

Based on a tumblr prompt from ofpiratesandswans-

Can you write a drabble in continuation to your Disney World + CS crossover where Killian meets Captain Hook and has a fit?

* * *

True to Emma' earlier prediction, Killian ends up dutifully carrying Amy's princess wand once she gets tired of trying to convince all of her "subjects" here at Disney World to kneel. In fact, the only ones who obey her royal highness are her father and grandfather, and her unfortunate 3 year-old Uncle Ethan. At one point, after a sly suggestion from Mary Margaret that they head over toward Pirates of the Caribbean, Killian even flourishes the wand to lead their large, straggling group forward, Amy happily dancing behind her newly appointed 'court crier.'

"Make way. Make way! Princess Rapunzel coming through. Make way!" Several little girl's pout enviously; many of the older women ooh and aah at the lengths he's going to to make his daughter happy; and Emma even hears a few catcalls and whispers about Hot Dads from hair-twirling twenty-somethings. Instead of reacting with jealousy, she can't help a secret smile, knowing that for all his charisma and very obvious sex appeal, Killian Jones is a—

"Bloody hell!" Her head shoots up quickly, trying to find the danger. She narrowly manages to catch Amy, who had run into the very solid wall of her father. Snow and Charming start giggling furiously at the sight of the long line of children bouncing around and waiting impatiently for their chance to get the autograph of the "real" Captain Hook. Emma scoops up her daughter in her arms and stands next to her husband, whose mouth is hanging open.

"Uh, babe? Making a scene and holding people up. Rides to get to and all that." His eyes flash to hers, pleading with her to tell him that he's not seeing what he thinks he's seeing. She shrugs indifferently. "You're the one who refused to watch it with our daughter."

Suddenly, Ethan shrieks from his perch on his father's shoulder. "Memma! Memma! It's Killy, it's Killy wiff his hook! He looks awful upset… You should kiss it, make it feel bedder!"

Killian whips his head around to see Snow clutching her side in laughter, his tiny brother-in-law pointing at the cartoonish lout impersonating him, and his best mate actually kneeling down with tears streaming down his face. "Bad form, all of you… Bad form, indeed."

It takes several more rides—and a discrete make-out session with his wife on the Haunted Mansion—before his wounded pride is properly soothed.


	18. May Angels Lead You In

Based on a tumblr gif set- Killian has a horrifically vivid nightmare about Cora taking Emma's heart and has to go make sure that it isn't real.

* * *

"_You stupid, foolish little girl! When will you and your pathetic band of imbeciles ever learn?! Love is weakness, and now I'll prove it to you once and for all." Cora twisted her fist in Emma's chest before ripping out the pulsing, glowing heart. More than one voice shouted; more than one member of their team rushed to attack the witch. Henry and Charming were tossed into the air, heads knocked against each other before they were dropped. Snow's arrows disappeared in a ball of fire. Perhaps because she knew his focus wasn't on hurting her, Killian managed to reach Emma's side just as she fell to her knees._

"_Take mine, lass. I know you have the ability! Just do it fast! The bloody thing's already yours anyway." He brought her hand up to his chest, directly above his heart, willing her to use her magic to save herself._

_She smiled sweetly, gently toy with his pendants and brushing her fingers along his skin. "I'd trade my life for yours any day. You know that."_

"_NO!"_

He woke up soaked in a cold sweat, the chill of autumn fog seeping into the timbers of the ship. He could hear rain falling harshly above decks and on the water. The dream had been so vivid, so real that he takes no time to think; he just drags his brace and his clothes on, throws on his boots and his coat and runs out into the storm. He knows his way around the town quite well now, but after locating her apartment and checking through the windows without finding her, he wanders a while looking for the sheriff's station. He spies the lights still on and immediately heads inside, where the warm air hits him hard.

She looks up from her spot at her desk, a smile beginning to form before it's replaced by a worried frown. "Killian—what's—you're soaked! What happened?"

He reaches out his hand, placing it against her chest, and she flinches slightly because his fingers are so cold. But there against his chilled skin, he feels a sure, steady pulse. He's staring at the spot above her heart where he's touching, as if by looking at it hard enough, he'll be able to see the now fluttering organ. "Cora… She came back, and she—she took you away from me. Bloody hell, Emma, I watched you die in my arms!"

She places her right hand over his and her left on his cheek to make him look at her. "Hey. It's alright, Killian. It was just a nightmare. Cora can't take my heart; in fact, no one can."

His eyes finally dart to hers, filled with questions and a small, timorous spark of dawning hope. She squeezes his hand and pulls him closer, so she can brush her nose against his. He leans into her touch as he always does, seeking the warmth of her love and the comfort of her body. Emma presses feather-light kisses to his lips, his cheek, his chin. "You see, Killian? See how much faster it's beating because of you?"

He whimpers when she places a hand on either side of his face and pulls him in for a thorough kiss, taking much longer than normal to respond to her. Emma takes it slow, but knows that he needs this—needs something real and intimate as proof that she's alive. Because she's had nightmares just like his before, where loved ones were ripped away, only to wake up and discover that they really had been taken or left. She slides her hands down his throat and his chest before wrapping her arms around his waist and bringing their bodies closer. His clothes are soaked through with sweat and rain, but that isn't the only thing that causes her whole body to shiver. She breaks their kiss gently, reaching to turn off the lamp on her desk and pick up her keys. "Come on. Let's get you home and out of those wet things."

Killian actually whimpers again, having misunderstood her and expecting her to take him to the Jolly Roger and then leave. "David has plenty of sweats you can borrow after you shower and warm up a bit."

"But the rules, lass… Henry's with you tonight, isn't he?"

"Yes, but I think that maybe you need me a little more tonight. We can forget the rules for just this once." She puts on her jacket, pulls up her hood, and then takes him by the hand. As always, he follows her, wherever she may lead him.


	19. Marriage of Two Minds

Based on a tumblr prompt by claire-loves: Can you do a prompt fic of Captain Swan with Killian as Emma's teacher?

Well, I'm no Hilary, and this isn't _Crimson_, but I do hope you enjoy. The title is a reference to one of Shakespeare's sonnets.

* * *

Emma slowed down the last few feet of hallway, trying to catch her breath and looking at her watch again. Only two minutes late—thanks to that idiot who cut her off in the parking structure, which was _supposed_ to make parking easier—but Professor Jones was very, very serious about tardiness and excuses. Acting Methods: Shakespeare was one of the hardest classes to get into because he was, quite frankly, one of the foremost experts on the plays AND performance of The Bard's works; their school had been lucky to snag him. But this also meant that he got more leeway than most professors his age—he could cut Emma completely from this class (one of the last seminars she needs before graduation) just for one instance of lateness. So, she prays to whoever is listening and carefully turns the knob to slip inside.

Thankfully, there's a seat very close to the front, but still a couple rows back. He's also looking down at the attendance sheet while calling names, the silver frames of his glasses making his dark blue eyes even more prominent. When he calls her, she dutifully answers, "Here," and breathes a sigh of relief for making it in unnoticed. She happily pulls out her much-marked copy of _A Midsummer Night's Dream_ out of her messenger bag, sticking a pencil behind her ear and setting her highlighter between her teeth as she zips the bag closed.

"Now, Miss Swan! Since you decided to be the first person to test my resolve regarding the attendance policy for this class, you shall demonstrate to me why I shouldn't drop you by the end of the day. Up front, please. Normally, I wouldn't allow you to bring the text with you, but as this is an American institution, I've been advised to relax my usual standards."

At first, she'd been so shocked and then mortified that he'd called her out when she looked ridiculous with that highlighter in her mouth. But then the arrogance of him! To imply that she wouldn't know the lines or how to act them, that her ability as an actress was somehow lacking simply because she wasn't British! It made her furious, but if there's anything Emma Swan knows, it's how to use her emotions to her advantage. "What passage will we be reviewing, Professor?"

He practically smirks at her, well aware that annoyance and a hint of fear is hidden underneath her sickly-sweet tone. "Act two, scene two. Mr…? Mr. Booth shall be our Puck! Now, I'm certain that all of you have seen the different film adaptations—hopefully the one with Sir Ian Richardson and Dame Judy Dench, and not just that acid-dropping version with Kevin Kline."

Most of their classmates laugh while Emma and August make their way to the front. Professor Jones points out the tensions of the scene, the act, and how it all relates to the play—directing each of them where to wait. Emma's place is right next to his side, waiting for him to explain the various choices other actors and directors have made, but her attention becomes riveted at the next thing he says.

"This play is a comedy, and one of the biggest themes to be found in the comedies is sex: who has it, who wants it, how often do they get it… If you are ever fortunate to be a part of an adaptation of one of these comedies, for the love of the Muses! Please, make it sexy! And so, if you can, my dear volunteered Hermia, at least pretend to be desperately in love and swayed by my Lysander." Professor Jones wraps an arm around Emma's waist, hand sitting directly over her hipbone, and unexpectedly pulls her flush into his body. The move makes her stumble and lose her footing, and not just because he practically yanked her off her feet. There's a sudden intensity to his eyes, an absolute focus on her that's more than a little unnerving.

She'd be lying if she claimed to have found him unattractive, but she also never expected a stuffy scholar to be able to look and smell like some grounded sex god. Because beneath the buttoned-down shirt and pressed slacks is a body that's very, very well-defined. Combined with those intense, bright blue eyes, the tousseled dark hair, and several days worth of stubble, there's a scent that she can't define—something like leather and cedar and wood smoke. And that's before you factor in the panty-dropping accent. And suddenly all of that, all of those midnight fantasies, combine in this one surreal moment to have her well and truly caught in a spell.

"Fair love, you faint with wandering in the wood; And to speak truth, I have forgot our way. We'll rest us, Hermia, if you think it good, And tarry for the comfort of the day." He poured such conviction into the performance, holding her upright as if she had truly begun to trip or swoon and sheepishly admitting to being lost. _That part would never happen in real life!_

She feels a little lightheaded, breathless; so she uses it, playfully disentangling herself from his arms and sitting on the ground. "Be it so, Lysander, Find you out a bed, For I upon this bank will rest my head."

He smirks at her again, the playful smile transforming into something positively sinful and suggestive. He kneels next to her, fingertips touching the floor for balance as he leans in close. His eyes dip down to her lips before he comes in closer still. His voice practically drips with sensual promise. "One turf shall serve as pillow for us both; One heart, one bed, two bosoms, and one troth."

He punctuated each number with a brush of his nose against each of her cheeks, her chin, and finally her nose, as if leaning in that last little bit for a very real kiss. Emma moves back quickly, heart suddenly pounding with panic. _Definitely panic_.

"Nay, good Lysander, for my sake, my dear, Lie further off yet. Do not lie so near." His focus on her only intensifies, taking one of her hands in his and managing to look almost convincingly boyish as he maneuvers his body to wrap around hers.

"Oh, take the sense, sweet, of my innocence! Love takes the meaning in love's conference. I mean that my heart unto yours is knit, So that but one heart we can make of it; Two bosoms enchained with an oath—So then two bosoms and a single troth. Then by your side no bed-room me deny, For lying so Hermia, I do not lie." He pretends to pepper kisses along her shoulders and neck, but the firm touch of his right hand on her stomach and the fluttering caresses along her spine are very real. Finally, he completely reclines on the floor, opening his arms to her, and dear god, if it doesn't feel absolutely real in this moment! She could swear that he IS Lysander, or that he, Professor Killian Jones, truly wants and needs her. The thought must flash across her eyes because his grin only gets wider and he actually winks at her.

"Lysander riddles very prettily. Now much beshrew my manners and my pride If Hermia meant to say Lysander lied." He pulls her down so that she sprawls across his chest, a tiny shriek escaping her before she can stop it. She blushes furiously, scrambling to sit back up. "But gentle friend, for love and courtesy Lie further off, in human modesty. Such separation as may well be said Becomes a virtuous bachelor and a maid, So far be distant; and, good night, sweet friend. Thy love ne'er alter till thy sweet life end!"

He looks up at her, jaw now tightened as if truly frustrated by her refusal, but he nods at the appropriate place. He sits up, grabs her face in between his hands and studies her for a few seconds. And then almost so faint she can't hear it. "A gentleman maybe, but not bloody virtuous if I can help it."

He winks at her again before finishing his lines and crawling a "respectable" distance from her position on stage. As August prances around reading his lines (book in hand), Emma feels something poke into her ribs. Still feigning sleep, she rolls over and retrieves a note. His eyes are closed, but Killian must feel her glaring at him, because his lips twitch up into a smile. She slips the piece of paper into her pocket, concealing it and taking it with her when she heads back to her seat. _Sweet sun you had risen and fled ere I could arouse ye. For shame to leave your servant so! He weeps and pines and yearns for the light of your smile, the gentle kiss of warmth from your touch. Say ye have not abandoned him, fair maiden. Turn one look, one smile upon his barren hours! Give him hope to see your radiant day!_

Emma smiles, peeking up at him beneath her lashes, watching him stride back and forth in lecture mode. She slips her phone out of her bag, quickly sending him a text. _Flattery will get you everywhere. My place at 7?_


	20. What Are You Doing?

Two tumblr birds with one stone here. Set immediately post 3.10.

"gavioticaonthejollyroger - Emma confronts Hook about whether or not anything is going on between him and Tinkerbell."

"reignofdreams - Emma noticed when Hook stopped drinking. She also noticed when he started again. (bonus if you can fit in some kind of reference to young Killian's disdain for drinking)."

* * *

Everyone else is panicking, talking at furious speeds and carrying on several conversations. What will the Curse do now? Will they all be affected? Whose fault is it? How can this version of it be broken? Why can it be cast again? If Rumplestitlskin created it, can't he counter it?

But suddenly none of that matters to Emma—she's "the Savior," but that apparently means nothing anymore. It's a sort of relief really, knowing that she can't and isn't expected to stop the inevitable. With no one looking to her for answers, she feels free to think about what she's going to lose whenever the brat king of Neverland decides to strike.

She slips to the edge of the claustrophobic catacomb, effortlessly blending into shadows and quietly ascending out and away from the crypt. The air is crisp and clean in a way that she's never experienced before—it doesn't smell like magic and death yet, so she's fleetingly grateful for its purity. She can hear him following her, boots sounding different on stone than they do on a ship's deck or the jungle undergrowth, but still recognizable.

She knows her way through the woods now, thanks to the search for Kathryn and then her trips to the Enchanted Forest and Neverland. Finding a path is easy, even if she doesn't know exactly know where she's going. But it seems that a part of her does know because she ends up where she was before all of this happened: down at the beach near the docks. She even sits herself on the same piece of driftwood that she had used earlier, waiting now for him to catch up.

The moon is out, casting bits of silver out onto the black waves and white foam that hits the shore. Everything should seem dark and bleak and hopeless. And it does…except for those scatter reflections of moonlight, the pin-point glimmering of stars. He doesn't say anything when he sits down, but he does pass his flask to her. She takes it from him silently and just keeps the comforting weight of it in her hand, absentmindedly fiddling with the cork. "I thought your love affair with rum ended on Neverland. At least, I haven't seen you drink any since…"

"Since we started searching for Neal, Aye. I thought that maybe I didn't need it quite so much anymore."

"Why?"

"You mean why did I need it in the first place? Or why did I think I had a chance with you?"

"So, now that Pan plans on cursing all of us, we're going to stop pretending that nothing happened between us?"

"Damn it, Swan! Would you stop avoiding answers?"

She smiles just a little bit at that. "I don't know. Can you stop answering questions with another question?"

He growls and reaches for his flask, but she holds it out of his reach. She waits until he stops glaring at the bottle and looks her in the eye. His pain—all the hurt and jealousy and years of loneliness—inhabits his eyes. The bottomless well of despair that she has no choice except to acknowledge and confront hits her like a freight train. And suddenly the misery that she endured and that caused her to build her walls seems so pathetically simple in comparison. "I didn't meet Neal at the diner today. I came here because I felt lost again, and do you know why? Because I could feel that something wasn't right. I _knew_ that something was wrong with Henry, but when I turned to either side today, I never found the one person who I could count on to back me up."

Her throat tightens, emotions and pride trying to choke her on the words her heart wants her to say. The pain is gone from his eyes, but his face is entirely unreadable. She doesn't even know if she should go on, but _should_ doesn't really matter when your world is ending soon anyway. "Regina thought that I was being petty; Snow, who has known him for longer than I have, just told me I was imagining things, and since David always sides with her…"

"I offered to bow out with dignity." His words shock her, not just because he breaks his silence, but because they sound hollow and broken. "I didn't want Henry to look at me the way Baelfire once did and accuse me of tearing his family apart. I wanted—I want you to be happy, Emma, whether I have the making of it or not. I know what family means to you, and to me, and I didn't want to stand in the way of you getting the life you deserve."

With the little bit of courage and hope that starts blossoming, she steps closer to him. "Does that mean you did sleep with Tinkerbell, or you didn't?"

If it were any other day, she might have gotten mad at him when he laughs. "Just because I decided to do the honorable thing doesn't mean that I was deliriously happy about my choice. I survived 300 years without you, yet one bloody day deprived of your company and I feel like drowning myself in Granny's mead and rum. I won't lie to you, love—I threw myself at her, rather like I did right after I first arrived in that hell and became an ally of hers. But only because I wanted to forget the pain for awhile, to forget the way I feel about you. I'm not proud of it, but then it's only been recently that I could find anything praiseworthy in any of my actions."

The smallest bit of a smile starts at the corner of her lips before she laces her fingers through his and tugs him along after her. "What are you doing, Lady Swan?"

She looks back over her shoulder at him, eyes dark and enigmatic, yet sparkling with something he doesn't have a name for. "I'm walking you home, pirate."

She keeps their hands locked together, so he takes the liberty of running his thumb on the warm skin of her wrist, just hidden under the woolen glove. Aside from accidental brushes here and there when they were running from Anton and fighting beside Lake Nostos, he's never had the chance to touch her bare flesh. Her kiss was too sudden and unexpected, he only had the chance to run his fingers along her hair a bit, and then it was over. Much like the walk to his ship, which he has no idea how they reached. Emma's presence consumes him, making time sprint and crawl both at once; he counts his life now almost by the minutes, hours, and days he has know her, because that's when living and breathing seemed worthwhile again.

It's his home, but somehow she is the one still leading the way onward, opening the door to his quarters and walking inside. When he makes no move to do so, she releases his hand gently and heads for the door. But instead of leaving, she closes it and presses her back against it. He knows what he hopes, but hardly dares to breathe. "And what are you doing now, my Lady?"

Her eyes have darkened with emotion, yet still they shine like the stars he's always dreamed would guide him home. "I'm spending my last hours as Emma Swan with the one person who has never stopped believing in her, with the one man who has never let her down. And because this is my last chance, I'm going to show him exactly how much everything he's done means to me and how I feel about him."

He starts to back away but stops himself, when she moves closer to him. "And how do you feel about him?"

She smiles at him—a real, genuine smile that makes her absolutely glow—and the sight of it is truly breath-taking. She stops, their bodies so close to touching. Using her teeth, she works the gloves off of one hand and then the other. Without breaking their gaze, she places her hands on his chest, slowly sliding them up until they wrap around his neck and the back of his head. She pulls him down just a bit and rests his forehead against hers. For a moment, they close their eyes and just breathe, just enjoy the silent comfort of the other's company. She delicately breaks it with a whisper. "Let me show you, Killian."


	21. He Watches Her Go

Based on a gif set for 3.11, where the group in front of the mausoleum is splitting up. Referring to Killian and Emma, the creator wrote underneath it: He watches her go.

* * *

_I just can't take a chance that I'm wrong about you._

He watches her go, straining against the chain she used to shackle him. He screams her name more than once, but she doesn't even flinch, let alone turn around. And he suddenly know that the Swan girl was in love once, but that whoever it was left her damaged and broken. That look in her eyes of abandonment and loneliness didn't just come from Regina's curse; it came from years of doubts and questions without any answers. He watches her go, understanding that any trust they shared at all was shattered long before they even touched the beanstalk.

He watches her go into the prison cell, the dungeon that housed his greatest foe somehow they key to retrieving the ashes that are currently within his own reach. He sees the fault lines in her allegiance to the heartless princess and the warrior, knows that they will be exploited and cracked as soon as Cora decides to use the gift he gave her. A part of him bleeds for her when the bars fall into place, though he doesn't understand why. Her betrayal still burns, still festers, and yet something close to pity rises up inside of him. But he can't let her see, can't bear to give her a weapon against him—no matter how much he wishes he could give her hope. So he walks away, watching the light die in her eyes

_You see this is a symbol—something that was once magical, full of hope and possibilities._

He watches her go through the motions of looking him over, eyes scanning and cataloguing every cut and every bruise. He doesn't know why she even pretends to care after all that he's done—bad form certainly, but hardly unwarranted after her betrayal of their alliance. She fades in and out, except for a golden shimmer that exists despite the pain. He sees worry and concern, even when she prods the worst of his injuries, even when the Dark One is crushing his throat. He hears panic in her voice and feels gentle empathy wash over him wherever her skin touches his. And when she stares him in the eye and calls him a dead man, he watches the sorrow and pity fill her eyes before she smiles and goes.

He watches her go to try and save a woman beyond salvation, a fool's errand for a valiant hero. Any guilt he would feel about taking the bean for himself is lost in the ocean of pain that is Milah's boy and the family they never had. Another lost boy searching for a home discovering that Neverland and magic aren't the answers to the questions they have. The darkness and misery threaten to pull him under yet again, but there it is again—that bright light that reminds you that something good and pure and true still exist. Somewhere… Far beyond the horizon perhaps, and certainly well past the second star to the right, but somewhere reachable. Someplace you can go if you only have the courage to stay.

_I thought you didn't care about anyone except yourself._

_There's not a day that will go by that I won't think of you_.

He watches her go, leaving behind every single person in every single world who loves her, except for one. He doesn't know where it comes from, but deep inside his heart he carries an unshakeable conviction that they haven't reached the end of their story. His love for her has slowly grown, rooting itself in his heart so entirely that he'd kill himself trying to weed it out; but hers has just decided to begin blossoming. With a single word, she makes him believe that the darkness will end and that their journey will continue. It took more Curses than he can count to bring them together, but he has faith that Destiny will make a way for them, will reveal a plan and a path. So, he watches her go, never doubting that he'll find her, that he'll always find her.


	22. Save the Last Dance (For Me), Part 5

An honor guard of eight dwarves awaits Killian just outside the door to Emma's suite of rooms, and while he appreciates every slap on the back, every handshake, and every empty threat of violence should he dare to trifle with her heart, he's truly anxious to see his beloved, his Princess. Each second has now become positively agonizing in its length—the knotted cord encircling his heart which then runs directly to hers pulls painfully tighter with every heartbeat, with every breath. Finally, all lectures delivered and methods of intimidation employed, seven of her uncles step back from the doors and let the anxious younger man through. Stealthy winks at him once before unceremoniously opening the doors, inadvertently sending the assorted ladies-in-waiting into an absolute maelstrom of indignation and feminine shrieks of displeasure. "Ladies! You are all hereby dismissed to your own rooms to prepare yourselves for the ball by order of the King, the Queen, and this young gentleman, who has requested and secured from aforementioned royal parentage a moment of the Princess' time, may enter with impunity! Good luck, pirate."

With a final flourish amid the swirling exit of so many skirts, Stealthy leaves the couple entirely alone for the first time ever, allowing them an unhindered reunion. Killian finds himself absolutely rooted to the spot, completely overwhelmed by the vision that Emma presents for him. Some might think it strange that he would fall in love with some he's known nearly all his life, whose secrets are all laid bare between them and where no seeming mystery exists to entice and enthrall. Although she has been his best friend, his companion on many a childhood adventure, he yet believes that he could spend his days at her side and still not know her whole being by the time death closes their eyes. His eyes take in her dress and the many ways she has chosen to personify the sea he serves her on—the uncharted depths that are concealed and revealed in her mind and soul. If he were any more religious or superstitious than he already is, he might be inclined to believe that some ocean goddess has deigned to take on flesh and grace him with her love and presence. He barely recognizes the woman standing in front of him, until she lifts her moss-green eyes in question, lower lip tucked between her teeth. There, in those tiny gestures of adorable insecurity despite her stunning beauty, is the woman who owns him body and soul.

The moment her uncle had barged in and order her maids to leave, Emma had all but stopped breathing. She had caught sight of him in the mirror, eyes locked on her through the flurry of offended, exiting women. The intensity of his focus has always unnerved her, made her feel completely stripped of all defenses, and yet curiously exultant in that very exposure to him simultaneously. Her mind is completely uncovered in his stare, yet she knows that he will respect and honor that gift of openness. When she finally gathers her courage and turns toward him, looking up at her fiancé for the very first time and not just her beloved, she's struck anew by her deep and growing need for this man to be by her side always. It's as if she's seeing him for the first time, discovering that first blush of desire and that abiding certainty that no other person can ever be the other half of her soul, save him. But his silence and continued impersonation of a statue puts her patience to yet another test. She fidgets with the fall of the dress, her bravado and self-assurance suddenly abandoning her when she needs them most. "I tried for months to find the right color, but I couldn't find anything that perfectly reminded me of your eyes. Because sometimes, when you're cross with me or angry, they'll turn murky and gray; and then others, like when we're out riding along the coast roads under the full moon, they shine like silver; and then again-"

He closes the distance between them in seconds, placing his hands on her waist and pressing their foreheads together. Both of them are panting, lightheaded and dizzy at the nearness of the other after so many long and lonely days apart, like they have been unable to breathe properly until this instant and _must_ fill their lungs. She smells of her favorite jasmine perfume and sunshine, fragrances he's missed while sailing on the decks of a ship and paying court to allies in a foreign land. They are scents both innocent and seductive, reminding him of their transition from friends to lovers. He smells of cedar wood, crisp starch, and hints of tar and paint from readying the vessel for inspection. Each time he goes somewhere new, a part of his scent changes, but it's just something she's accepted about him—always able to go on adventures without her and bringing phantoms and memories back with him to share. He smells like home and like something wildly exotic, both familiar and foreign in ways that arouse and comfort her at the same time. Her right palm finds the spot on his chest directly above his heart, seeking for the reassuring pulse of life and warmth, faint beneath the many layers of his best uniform.

"You would be the loveliest woman in any room regardless of the color and cut of your dress, dearest Emma. I dare say, you could walk into the ball wearing nothing but rags, and poets would still write sonnets to your grace and beauty." He gently cups her face in his hands, thumbs feathering light touches to her cheekbones and long, calloused fingers carefully caressing her jaw and throat. He feels the heated blush in her cheeks before he sees the telltale flushing of her skin, loving that with a few words, he can watch her become even more radiant, just for him. He has watched her trade compliments and witty barbs with hundreds of diplomats and thousands of her subjects more times than he could count, and yet her blushes and shy smiles are his alone. Only when he looks her in the eye to earnestly express how she makes him feel—and words are such pitiful, insufficient things—will she glow. When he'd tried to explain it to her once, she had merely shrugged and replied that love made him see what anyone else would be blind to. She sighs into his touch, one palm still resting over his heart and other hand now resting lightly on top of his.

"Somehow, I doubt the King and Queen would ever give us leave to test the theory, but perhaps at a later date we can try. However, as I did go to a lot of trouble with this particular event, I hope you can appreciate all the pomp and ceremonial without feeling the need to verbally eviscerate anyone who will request a dance with me. Since you've now ruined your own celebration by making it about both your promotion and your engagement, you'll have to play nice with the nobles and your peers who will wish to congratulate us. Although, strictly speaking, you have yet to even kiss me today, let alone ask me to marry you." His smile becomes just the slightest bit predatory and his eyes light with mischief, reminding her of some of their more foolish and daring ventures of the past. His grin widens at her gasp when he pulls the well-known box from his pocket and then sinks to one knee.

"Then let me remedy the last fault before the former. My Emma love, my dearest friend, my Princess and my future Queen, you are the missing half of my soul. I've known for seven years and more that this moment would eventually come to be, where I would offer my heart and my body to your service. Despite having friends among the philosophers and poets of this court, I have no pretty speeches prepared, because when we need them most, words are inadequate to convey all that we feel. I love you, dear Emma. Will you please marry me?" When he looks back on his life, Killian knows that this moment will shine perhaps the brightest among his memories because he has never seen her look as radiant, as earth-shatteringly beautiful in her happiness. Love lights her whole body from within such as he has never witnessed before. She scrambles his wits and makes him forget how to breathe before raising him up and giving him life again with her kiss. He tastes their tears—his and her comingling—in their kiss, her lips soft and yielding yet also commanding. Her answer requires no words, yet she whispers it repeatedly against his skin.

"Yes. You proud, stupid man. Yes!"


	23. Scarlet

Based on a tumblr prompt from princess-america-singer: Killian's reaction to seeing Emma in a ballgown for the first time. (Might get a sequel soon).

* * *

"For the last time, Emma, you look beautiful."

"I'm positively envious that I chose something in purple for this evening, dear. Red and black are definitely my colors, but you pull them off spectacularly." Compliments from Regina are still exceptionally rare, despite how well they've come to know each other. If the formerly Evil Queen likes your sense of style, then you must be doing something right.

"I'm just not used to wearing all of… this. Are you sure I don't look like an extra in a bad 80's prom movie?" To be honest, she knew that the dress itself was a work of art; she just wasn't sure that SHE was doing IT any favors. The fabric was a very stiff red silk taffeta with rose vines embroidered onto the bodice in black thread, tiny jet beads and honest-to-god black pearls scattered throughout. The strapless corset of the bodice worked an absolute miracle with her breasts, while the low waist hit just above her hips and flared out slightly into an a-line shape. The seamstresses (not mice, thankfully) had insisted on a full-on bustled train, which like the rest of the skirt was yards and yards of the same material in a deeper red, so that the overall effect was of blood-red ruby. She even had black gloves that made the bodice appear alternately redder or darker depending on the light.

Snow had also insisted on some killer heels. Literally, Emma wasn't sure how long she would manage to not trip over her own shoes. Her neck was wrapped in a pewter choker that was dripping with carnelians and onyxes, with delicate ruby earrings to match. And to top it all off, her hair was piled on top of her head in an elaborate mountain of curls with diamond and jet pins, although a few barrel curls were allowed to "artfully" fall down her back. Yes, the whole outfit weighed a ton, was "appropriately" regal, and with the corset laced tight there was no chance of slouching, but all of this was so alien, so foreign to her. Despite her mother's assurances to the contrary, she was worried about looking like a fool, or an imposter. Or worse in her mind, that her husband won't like how she looks.

Naturally, the women had been sequestered away in the Queen's suite for the better part of the afternoon. In fact, Killian's quite certain that he's only seen one female servant this whole day, and she had been in the ballroom directing the table arrangements and placement of the décor. He and Charming had taken Henry out for a ride and then to the salle for sword practice, and all three of them had taken baths and gotten dresses for the evening within the span of an hour. They are now congregated around the fireplace in one of the informal, family sitting rooms, Charming discussing an atlas and giving his grandson a rudimentary lesson in politics, while the pirate turned prince is nursing a glass of whiskey. It's a weakness of his, to drink Emma's preferred alcohol when he isn't allowed to be near her. David once claimed that his petulance and pouting was easier to endure when he was under its slower burning influence.

At the moment, Killian is ready to toss the bloody glass—whiskey and all—into the fire and demand entrance to the Queen's rooms. Childish certainly, but after all that he's been through in his long life and after all that they've been through as a couple, neither he nor Emma handle the absence of the other very well. Charming and Snow are the same way, but as both have more experience with the demands and duties of royalty, his in-laws bear any time apart with better grace. Their wedding had been a brief, simple affair back in the Land Without Magic per her request, so tonight is Emma's first ball. Her mother insisting on a big, formal event to mark their return to their kingdom, means that her daughter is likely to be upset or nervous; aside from how the stress and her mood will affect her magic (potentially disastrous), his wife's peace of mind and happiness is always Killian's number one priority. Being unable to calm her, or to reassure himself of her safety, becomes a nagging, irritating chorus in the back of his mind the longer he is away from her.

Thankfully for the glassware and everyone's sanity, the doors choose the moment when the pirate's impulses were about to be indulged to open smoothly and reveal Regina on the other side. The visiting queen quickly glides through the room straight to her son's side. In the last year, Henry has grown into a lanky teenager, taller than both the women he calls Mom; thanks to various training with his grandfather, father, and step-father, he's filling out his frame faster than he might have otherwise. Snow comes in, looking as graceful and serene as he's ever seen her—a look no doubt caused by the visible swell of her stomach beneath her aquamarine gown. Being in close proximity to her pregnant mother all day was what had Killian worried the most. She's never admitted it out loud, and he knows that she is genuinely happy to be a big sister, but a part of her is still struggling to deal with her past as an orphan. But the unworried expression on his mother-in-law's face sets at least one of his anxieties aside, for the moment.

He stands a little straighter, leaning forward slightly as if to try and be the first person to see Emma come into the room. "Come on, Mom! It can't be that bad!"

Henry's comment causes everyone in the room to chuckle a little bit, even Killian. A muffled, unintelligible comment from the woman in question makes her son's giggle even louder. But the laughter, along with any coherent thought her husband might have had in his brain at the moment, dies the instant she glides into the room. He's had a fantasy or two more than once about what it would be like to see her dressed like the princess she is—which usually involves the gradual removal of all her finery. Her dress practically flaunts how very un-princesslike she is, provocatively highlighting the lush curves of her hips and breasts. The scarlet and jet of her gown, topped by the golden hue of her curls, the creamy porcelain of her skin, the sharp jade of her eyes mark her as the sensual treasure she is to him. Her eyes flick to each member of her family before settling on him, a flash of sultry determination both softening and hardening her gaze at once. Emma delicately lifts the skirt of her dress between each forefinger and thumb, giving him surprisingly tantalizing flashes of her stocking clad legs; as if she knows his thoughts will go straight toward memories of how those feet, ankles, and legs feel pressed against his lower back as he—

Emma comes to a stop in front of him, dropping the fabric and obscuring her legs and feet from sight. With a sinfully smug grin on her face, she leans forward and slips one finger under his chin, pushing up so that his jaw is no longer hanging open. "So… I take it you approve of the dress?"

He vaguely registers the sound of everyone else laughing as they walk out of the room, discretely giving them a moment alone before all the fuss and pomp of the ball begins. Careful of all the hard work that went into creating the vision before him, Killian gently caresses the curve of flesh just above the neckline of the gown. Her breath catches in her throat, thrusting her breasts up into his feather-light touch. He leans over, skimming his nose along the skin just below and behind her ear. Emma shivers, earning a soft kiss against her throat and a chuckle from her husband. "This dress receives full commendation and endorsement from me, love. The question is: how much will enjoy me ravishing you later whilst still wearing it?"


	24. An Ever Fixed Mark

There were lots of requests for a continuation of the professor!Killian and student!Emma one-shot from tumblr. Credit goes to hiddleswans for the original prompt and for narrowing the field down to the story of how they met/their date. Side Note: I was visiting London for a conference in April 2010, and the Globe players were in fact in rehearsals for _Macbeth_ at that time; hence, the reference to it. Though my tour guide was very nice (and did peg me as an American due to my smiling), he was, sadly, neither Colin O'Donoghue or Killian Jones.

* * *

While she's certain that the excuse won't fly with the school administration, Emma hadn't exactly _planned_ on getting romantically involved with one of her professors. When she first met him, it had been purely by accident and on another continent. And even when the name K. Jones had shown up on the new course catalogue, it hadn't been enough to connect the hot tour guide at Shakespeare's Globe Theatre in London with her soon to be acting teacher. She recognized his name from various articles and publications on the stagecraft of Shakespearian drama, of course; but who would expect someone with that kind of academic and theatrical clout to be showing gawping Americans around the rebuilt playhouse?

Killian had been really sweet, answering all of her questions without judging. It had taken him all of two seconds to peg her as both a drama student and an American (according to him, only Americans smile while sightseeing in London, and only theatre people looked at the stage with the kind of awe and wonder she exhibited). Naturally, this had made her blush ridiculously, but she hadn't been able to deny his 'accusations' either. At the end of the tour, he'd offered to show her to a nearby fish and chips stands and answer some more of her questions. They'd talked in hushed tones about 'the Scottish Play' that was in rehearsals, but which she wouldn't be able to see since she was leaving before the theatre season started.

All in all, it had been just a random encounter between two Shakespeare nerds, and nothing would have ever come of it. Until she showed up for that very first day of class…

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Just like everyone else, she'd received the email that warned the students of Acting Methods: Shakespeare to be on time and prepared to act, read, and discuss or expect to be promptly drop-kicked out of the seminar/workshop. The fact that the class was slated for 10:00 am—a ghastly, unholy hour for theatre and acting majors—was considered irrelevant; your absence meant a waste of space in a capacity workshop and, more importantly, of the professor's valuable time. Thus, at 9:55 am on the dot, about a dozen of her peers huddled outside the classroom waiting for the previous group to leave, energy drinks and other preferred stimulants in hand. They'd been told to have a copy of _Romeo & Juliet_ to work from for today's discussion and performance, a piece that Emma seriously wondered why they were even covering when there were so many other, lesser known yet equally deserving plays to study. She'd had most of the play memorized since she was in high school and the "tragedy" of two teenaged idiots who kill themselves over an infatuation just no longer held any real appeal for her as an actress. All of that would have mattered if _she_ were teaching the class or if _she_ were the newly- minted foremost scholar on the acting and staging of the Shakespearean canon. Since she was not, she had to put up with Professor Jones' choices.

As soon as the drones from the previous class shuffle out in their yoga pants and sweatshirts—because who in college really gets dressed before noon anyway—she and her fellow theatre majors scurry into the uncomfortable chair-desk combos, followed by the larger group of students who risked their place in the seminar for a few minutes more sleep or a barista-made coffee. She does have to give them credit for being ballsy, but this is the only required class she has left to complete and the only one whose time slot fits in with her job, her volunteer hours at the children's theatre, and her other classes. She can take zero risks when it comes to this final requirement.

She placed her messenger bag on the floor next to her chair and started digging around for her "work" copy of the play and something to write with when he walked in. "Good morning, all. I trust that you are not completely uncultured imbeciles and are knowingly in this classroom. If you are NOT here for advanced instruction on the performance of The Bard's plays, please make you exit as silently and humbly as possible."

Emma smacked her head on the desk next to her at the sound of his voice. Despite the disdain dripping from his mouth and the fact that he's on the wrong fucking continent, she's recognize that accent anywhere—a unique blend of North-Eastern Ireland, Londoner, and a little Cockney. Her cheeks started to flush when she snuck a peek at him from beneath her eyelashes. He was most definitely the same Killian who had been so open and carefree during the tour just five months ago—same silver-framed glasses, wind-styled black hair, three-day stubble, and piercingly blue eyes. _He must have thought I was a complete idiot, raised under a rock!_

Class flew by in a blur, Emma finding it extremely difficult to pay attention to the readings, the discussion about the lovers' exchanges, mention of the endless debate regarding the playing of Mercutio's sexuality (Gay, Bi, or Straight?), and of course, frequent lamentation regarding the substandard film versions versus stage productions. Basically by the time the seminar was over, she still hadn't gotten over her shock and was the only person to have not contributed a single word. Her good friends August and Ruby even tried nudging her under the desk at different points of the lecture, but neither had been able to shake her into participating. And just when she thought she was going to get out of the classroom, scot-free and able to slink away to her apartment to maybe get over her disbelief, she heard his voice. "Ms. Swan, a word, if you please."

_Damn_! Escape clearly not an option at this point, because even though he phrased it like a request, it was definitely a command. She packed up her stuff, but remained in her seat, waiting for everyone else to file out past her and out of the room. Ruby had shot her a sympathetic smile and mimed sending a text, demanding in her less than subtle way to be kept in the loop.

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Emma smiles to herself as she thinks back on that first day. Instead of being the dictatorial and tyrannical professor, the second they had gotten to his office, he had flashed her the same crooked grin she remembered from their impromptu date. "Missed me, love?"

They had laughed after that, promising themselves that nothing would happen and that no one in administration needed to be any wiser to the fact that their newest professor and one of their students had struck up a friendship. Now, they just hope that everyone believes the story they've been selling. Given how surly and stodgily British he's been to her in class, the other drama students are fooled at least. Emma finds herself thankful yet again for the fact that her Dad's investment in her college fund actually paid off enough for her to rent an apartment on her own; having a nosy roommate hanging around while she has an affair with her drama teacher would put a damper on things, the mood not the least of them. And perhaps the taste of the forbidden, the frisson of fear that they could be discovered, adds just the right touch of spice to their increasingly passionate, increasingly frequent encounters.

With the end of the semester coming up, she knows that they're getting a bit too reckless. Take this morning, for example. A few weeks ago, she wouldn't have spent the night over at his place, and they certainly wouldn't have pushed their luck with seeing each other again with two nights in a row. Perhaps now she understands Juliet more than she did, can empathize with giving in to the impetuous fire in her blood and the willingness to risk it all for love. Killian has given that back to her—the hope that love is real, is more than some fanciful and unattainable dream. If she were a poet, like he is, she'd be tempted to write some of these thoughts down. So she simply cherishes her musings, holding them tightly to the heart that had been cracked and broken before she gave him a chance. Until she's interrupted by a soft knocking at her door.

Because she's still a cautious person despite her new rosier outlook on life, she checks the peephole. It takes her a few seconds, but when she finally gets the door open, Killian is leaning up against the doorframe. He's looking straight at her over the single rose that he's holding to his nose, a cream and dark pink Double Delight which doesn't quite cover his cheeky grin. "Are you trying to tell me that you don't like my perfume?"

He smirks, slipping a hand around her waist and bringing their bodies together before smoothly turning them both further into her living room. He touches the rose to her forehead, caressing down her nose and chin; when she lifts her face, he takes the opportunity to skim his nose along her jaw and to her ear, breathing deeply. "On the contrary, love. By any other name, you would smell as sweet, as decadent, as intoxicating, as enticing."

Her laughter is breathy as he continues to brush the soft petals down her skin and presses gentle kisses to her neck. "Shameless flattery, Professor Jones."

"The genuine outpourings of romantic affection, my dear Emma, although I was positively vexed to find you had vanished this morning. What shall I do wish such a saucy wench?" She can't stop the shiver of excitement that shoots up her spine or the little whimper of pleasure when he nips at her collarbone. Before she can respond with a smirk and a smart remark, Killian finally raises his head and claims her lips. And God help her, but she loves the way he kisses! Even though the feel and taste and scent of him have become so familiar, each time is different. Now, in this moment, everything is soft, seductive, persuasive—rather like the rose he continues to brush along her skin. His mood is gentle, adoring, teasing with the light, delicate strokes of his tongue on hers. Playful, her mind finally supplies. She manages to break the kiss, panting lightly because, sappy cliché or not, he always manages to leave her feeling slightly breathless.

"I'm sure you can think of a few things, and if your creativity lets you down, I've got an idea or two." She snags one of her fingers through a belt-loop and tugs his hips closer, while her other hand slides through his hair. His one weakness, other than the backs of his calves, is when she scratches her nails along his scalp. Her smile widens at the growl that rises from his chest and into his throat.

"Do any of them involve leaving this apartment?" He brings the rose back up to her face, laying it along one of her cheekbones.

"Nope."

"Good, because if you don't mind, I brought this along for a little something more than its decorative purpose." He taps the tip of her nose gently with the flower before dropping a kiss on it as well. He reaches up and untangles her hand from his hair, lacing their fingers together, and bringing her palm to his lips before leading her back toward the bedroom.


End file.
